


you always said you knew what i could be

by geckoplasm



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Canon Compliant, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Genderfluid Character, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Love, M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 05:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoplasm/pseuds/geckoplasm
Summary: Learning to love yourself takes time. Life and love can be complicated. Yuuri finds out the hard way.





	1. Recognize

**Author's Note:**

> How can I ask love to hold the mystery  
> When just look at me  
> It's all push and pull collateral 
> 
> \- Farewell to the old me, Dar Williams

Victor has flower pots by the windowsill. Blooming, brightly coloured anachronisms, sitting on the edge of Victor’s modern, monochrome apartment. Bright reds and soft pinks; the petals drop and curl, elegantly jarring against the straight lines and the gleaming glass.

Yuuri loves them.

He also has no idea why they’re there. As far as he can tell, he’s the only one watering them. When he asks about it, Victor laughs and says,

“Of course you’re the only one watering them! If I watered them too they’d be over-watered and then they’d die!”

“So why aren’t you watering your own flowers?”

Victor looks like a puppy when he’s confused – head tilt and soft whine and all.

“Because you started watering them? I figured you liked doing it.”      

So Victor has flowers by his windowsill, and Yuuri waters them. When Yuuri asks what kind they are Victor just flaps a hand.

“I don’t know how to say in English,” he explains, and looks utterly disinterested in finding out.

It’s possible, Yuuri muses, that Victor doesn’t know what they are in Russian either. He probably just has them because they’re pretty. They are flowers, they’re pretty and Yuuri waters them. Victor probably couldn’t care less about any more detail than that. The thought makes Yuuri laugh. It’s so Victor.  

 

Life in St Petersburg takes some getting used to. It’s easy to move – he’s good at packing clothes and keepsakes, he’s done it before, after all. It’s harder to treat Victor’s apartment and rink like _home._ He misses the onsen, and it’s not like he hates Victor’s bookshelves and crockery but it’s not what he would have chosen, and nothing is familiar. Yet.

That’s what Victor says. ‘Nothing is familiar yet’. His unrelenting optimism is in turns adorable and frustrating, but Yuuri doesn’t say anything. He knows that Victor is trying, trying really, really hard to make everything good for Yuuri. Victor bought chopsticks and found a good specialty store for when Yuuri just wants to cook – and eat – something he recognizes. Victor has set up the second room for Yuuri, even though he spends most nights with Victor, in case

“You ever need some you-time,” Victor had explained, looking suddenly shy. He’d decorated the room with the same colours as Yuuri’s old bedroom in Hasetsu. He’d hung a massive painting in the centre of the wall, the first thing you see when you open the door. It’s the Hasetsu jetty, with the ocean and the sky in different brilliant blues.

When Yuuri had first arrived, Victor had pointed out different things – a set of matryoshka dolls on the bookshelf, handed down from Victor’s grandmother, the new sheets on the bed, a chew toy from Makkachin (“She’s letting you borrow it!”).

“Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue – why Victor! Are you proposing to me?” Yuuri had joked, and then kicked himself – so lame – but Victor had laughed himself silly.

 

Yuuri worries about getting lost. He’s got an awful sense of direction to start with, and he can’t read any of the street signs here. But Victor has set up his phone and saved a bunch of locations into Google Maps, and he’s added all of the numbers of their rinkmates. He helps test Yuuri on some Russian phrases every evening. Most of the figure skaters speak good English, Yakov too.

“No-one ever silences their phone at the rink – so even if they’re skating, someone will hear it and pick it up,” Victor reassures him, and then winks, “Not that I plan on letting you out of my sight often, my dear, but sometimes needs must, I suppose.”

So, yes, it’s hard, but as he explains to a worried Yuuko, it’s the easiest it could possibly be. Victor loves him and is doing his best to make him comfortable. Even when Yuuri’s demands are less than logical (“The cups should just be above the plates in the kitchen – can we, can we just swap where they are? So the cups are on the top shelf, and the plates are below them?”), Victor will smile and acquiesce. Because Victor loves him.

They make new routines. Yuuri had been worried that Victor had a life here that he wanted to get back to, and Yuuri was going to have fit in. Like an additional puzzle piece stuck on the side, or maybe Yuuri wouldn’t fit at all – maybe he’s the wrong shape at the wrong time. But he shouldn’t have worried. He should never worry when it comes to Victor. If Victor had routines, he’s certainly not tied to them. The apartment is from ‘before’, as Victor calls it, but he doesn’t seem to care about anything in it. The only vestiges of his old life that he seems to want to hold on to are grooming Makkachin each evening, and walking her at exactly 4pm every day. That’s hardly difficult to fit in with.

And everything else is up for discussion. What does Yuuri want to eat? (A silly question, what one _wants_ to eat and what one is _allowed_ to eat are never the same thing.) Does he want to change any of the furniture? (Yuuri couldn’t care less.) Does Yuuri want Victor as a coach in the morning and a competitor in the afternoon, or vice versa? Does he want to gym together, or alone? When do they go food shopping?

They develop new habits. Victor wakes him up with soft kisses every morning, the kettle already boiling. Yuuri always whines for five more minutes. Victor always lets him. Yuuri pretends not to know that Victor just starts waking him up five minutes earlier. Yuuri refuses to get up until he’s counted at least ten kisses to his back. Victor makes breakfast, but they cook dinner together. Yuuri loads the dishwasher each night, and Victor empties it. They sing to Britney Spears and other 90s pop music when they clean. Yuuri always challenges Victor to a race when they take Makkachin to the park, and the loser has to give the other a foot massage. (Yuuri wins most of the time, but it doesn’t really matter – Victor massages his feet whether he wins or loses.)

 

Of course, they skate and train and dance and lift weights and go on runs and count their calories and sweat and fall and jump and spin. But for the first time, for both of them, Yuuri’s pretty sure, there’s a life outside of that. It’s wonderful. It’s surprisingly comfortable, living with Victor.

 

“You’re an enabler,” Georgi accuses when Victor has gone to the bathroom. They’re out for dinner – all of Yakov’s skaters. Yuri rolls his eyes.

“No fucking shit,” He mutters under his breath, before yelping. Mila looks smug.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Yuuri hedges. Now everyone is rolling their eyes.

“Yakov spent years trying to train Victor out of his dramatics. And then you arrive and ramp it right back up again!”

Yuri is glaring at him. Yuuri shrugs. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it. He’s not ashamed, and he certainly has no regrets. He doesn’t suffer through Victor’s clinginess, no matter what anyone thinks; he doesn’t love him _despite_ it. He loves him _because_ of it.

And really, how can _Georgi_ of all people comment on dramatics?

“What are we talking about?” Victor reappears. As soon as he’s seated, Yuuri’s hand is back on his thigh. He ignores the pointed look from Mila.

“Your undying love for Katsudon,” Yuri says. Victor visibly brightens.

“Why did you say that?” Georgi hisses.

Yuuri can’t quite tell if they’re being malicious, or if this is within the teasing bounds of friendship. Victor is unbothered, and regales them with a poetic retelling of Yuuri’s spins from today (“We know, Vitya! We were all there!”). Yuuri’s sure he’s not the only one tuning out when Victor starts his third round of compliments and adorations about Yuuri.

“Actually, Katsudon. I was reading something online about you today,” Yuri interrupts. His causal tone is almost enough to make Yuuri nervous. Mila cackles. Now he’s definitely nervous, “Did you know that you’re a gay idol?”

Yuuri startles. That is not a collection of words he ever expected to hear from Yuri.

“What?”

“On tumblr, and twitter and stuff. Your fans. Wait let me pull it up,” Yuri starts scrolling through his phone. Maybe idol means something different than what he’s thinking of.

“They’re saying I’m a – a gay idol?” Yuuri can’t help sounding incredulous. That’s ridiculous. He’s just Yuuri. He’s just Yuuri.

 “Yeah, you’re like ‘gay goals’.”  Yuuri stares. Yuri stares right back, right eyebrow raised, somehow managing to keep a straight face. Mila leans over and laughs so hard that she snorts,

“Have you really had a crush on Victor since you were eight years old, Yuuri?” Oh God. Yuuri can feel the heat burning down his cheeks and neck. He must be -  

“You’re bright red!” Mila laughs.

 “You had a crush on me? That’s embarrassing.” Victor repeats, sounding incredulous. Yuuri frowns, turning to him.

“We’re _engaged_.”

“Dumbass. The line is ‘We’re married’.”

“But we’re not?”

“Are you? Unaware of the meme?” Yuuri buries his face in his hands.

“I don’t even know what’s going on right now.”

Their laughter doesn’t feel mean. Not when Mila is also teasing Yuri (“How did you even find that interview?”), and Victor is holding his hand. It’s nice, to have friends, to have fun. Yuuri can’t help smiling.

 

Yuuri gets silver at Four Continents. He’s disappointed. JJ pulled out all the stops and really, deserved the gold this time much more than he deserved his bronze at the Grand Prix Final. Yuuri’s parents are proud of him, and Victor is proud of him, and it’s ridiculous to be disappointed by a silver medal. But he is. So there.

“Yuuri,” Victor murmurs, holding him close that night, “You did really well. There was nothing wrong with your performance. JJ’s routine just has more points in it. We can fix that next season, if you’d like – give you a stronger, harder routine.” Yuuri shakes his head against Victor’s chest.

“I want a stronger routine now. There’s still Worlds.”

“Sweetheart,”

“Please, Victor.”

“Let me think about it, okay? But Yuuri, you did really well. You skated beautifully.”

But Yuuri is already asleep.

 

He throws himself into training. It’s reassuring to fall back into the old routine. He wakes up, he trains, he eats, he bruises, he sleeps. But everything is slightly different: breaks with Yuri, music he doesn’t understand playing through the speakers, different colours at the rink.  It’s weird to be in the middle of an old life and a new one, but comfortable.

“You’re settling it well at the rink,” Victor tells him, one evening. He sounds proud. Yuuri nods from the floor. He’s stretching.

“Yep.”

“Yuri’s not distracting you too much?” Yuuri would laugh but he’s sort of crushing his diaphragm in this pose.

“Yuri hardly talks to me!”

“I didn’t say he was distracting you by talking to you. He’s intense.” And the ridiculousness of _Victor_ calling someone intense is too much for Yuuri to handle. He flops onto his back and laughs.

“Oh really? Somehow in the middle of him kicking down doors and yelling at everyone I’d forgotten.” Victor huffs and rolls his eyes. Yuuri blows him a kiss.

 

Things are okay. Everything is okay. It’s a month to Worlds and he still doesn’t think he can beat JJ, and he definitely can’t be Yuri because Yuri is amazing and 15 and so much more talented than Yuuri is or ever was or ever can be. But everything is okay because Victor believes in him and Yuuri is training really hard and he’s going to be fine.

He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.

 

“Yuuri, again? You haven’t been landing this jump all day.”

“Not helpful, Victor,” Yuuri growls with gritted teeth. Victor’s eyes widen, and he waves his arms. Maybe he’s trying to calm Yuuri down. Mostly he looks like a disgruntled bird. The image makes Yuuri laugh. Victor looks so confused, which makes Yuuri laugh more.

“We should take a break for the day,” Victor hazards. Yuuri groans, but he knows Victor’s right. There’s no point in beating a dead horse; if he keeps trying to do this jump he’ll end up a dead horse. Victor looks confused. It made more sense in his head.

“I’ll make us some lunch. You must be hungry,” Victor says, as they walk through the door. He sits Yuuri down on the couch. It’s late. The walk home had taken longer than usual. Victor had taken them through the park, to look at the flowers beginning to bloom. That reminds him.

“Victor?”

“Yes?” He calls from the kitchen, voice amongst the clanking of plates. Victor always cooks with more dishes than he needs. He’s probably never not had a dishwasher, Yuuri reasons.

“Your flowers. They’re azaleas and irises.”

“Oh? How did you figure that out?”

“Mari figured it out, actually. She’s got a book or something.”

“Thank her for me. Here, eat up.” Yuuri has no idea what Victor’s feeding him – some kind of soup? But it looks delicious.

“Thank you. They’re special,” He explains through mouthfuls. It tastes delicious too, “Your flowers. They bloom multiple times in the year.” Victor nods, “That’s unusual.”

“Is it? I love it!” Victor looks delighted.

“This is _so_ good, Victor. What am I eating?” And Victor launches into a detailed description of the recipe, with a lot of hand-waving substituting for words that he doesn’t know how to translate. It’s adorable, even if it’s utterly unhelpful.

 

He forgot to water the flowers, he realizes. He’s been forgetting to water the flowers for the past few days, he’s been so focused on his training. And now they’re drooping, the flowers wilting.

They’re probably going to be fine, he tells himself. _Victor_ managed to keep them alive for nearly a month before Yuuri arrived, they’ve got to be hardy. They’re going to be fine, even if he messed up.

But it’s too late.

_He’s_ not going to be fine. He can’t breathe.

He runs. He runs but he can’t breathe; it’s a miracle he manages to move at all. He locks the door, collapses.

Falls to the floor. 

He’s so pathetic. He’s 24 and he’s hiding in a bathroom again.

It’s always like this. Something inside of him breaks and he runs and hides, tail between his legs like a guilty, feral animal.

There’s a pounding in his head and in his veins; his fingertips are racing at a mile a minute and his thoughts are getting clammy. His chest aches. It’s his heart. It’s his lungs. They’re going to burst – he can’t breathe. _He can’t breathe._

“Yuuri?” Someone’s calling him from another room. It must be Victor. Yuuri wants to call out for him – wants his help. He needs his help.

But his throat is closed up. It’s been stitched up, clogged up, closed up. He hasn’t got a throat anymore – his fingers close around nothing – there’s nothing. He can’t breathe. His fingers are wet. He’s crying? He needs Victor.

“Yuuri?”

‘Help me’, he tries to say. He scrambles on the floor. His hands are shaking. He is shaking, rocking, flopping on the floor. He must look like a beached whale: fat, blubber, blubbering mess.

Can Victor hear him? He hopes, desperate hope that tastes like iron in his throat, that Victor can hear him.

“Yuuri!”

Victor’s a phantom in front of him: blurred, hair whisping under the bathroom light. Yuuri chokes on his thanks. Yuuri is just choking.

Victor grabs his hand. It burns. His hand is so cold; it’s grounding. Yuuri concentrates on the frostbite spreading to each finger, one by one. He counts. Victor is counting. Too slow. Yuuri slows down, and trips. And panics. And tries again. Victor taps on his wrist. Taps in time with the counting, with the beat. It’s a quiet drumbeat, unassuming. It’s perfect. Victor’s perfect.

And the white noise fades. The pounding, rushing, frantic panic fades. Yuuri can breathe again. Slows down. Breathes. Counts. Victor’s hand gets warm. The taps become a comforting caress. Victor’s hands are soft.

“That’s right, sweetheart. You did well. So well. Keep breathing slowly, yeah?” Victor’s saying. His voice is a deep, dry rumble. Feels like a blanket draped over Yuuri’s shoulders, soft and warm, keeps him safe, “You did so well. Calling out for my help, I’m so proud of you. I love you.”

Victor’s come a long way, Yuuri realizes. He’s trying so hard.

And Yuuri immediately bursts into tears. He doesn’t deserve this man, who tries so hard to help him, who loves him even when he’s difficult.

Victor kisses the top of his head, and doesn’t complain when Yuuri nearly breaks his fingers squeezing his hand so tight.

“Why do you have them?” Yuuri asks eventually, voice croaking and nose blocked. At least he’d stopped crying. Victor tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed, “The flowers. Why do you even have them?”

“You were crying – over – my flowers?” Victor says slowly.

“No!” Yuuri shouts, then repeats, more calmly, “No. I just…I’ve just been wondering about them since I got here. Why do you have them? They don’t match the rest of the place.”

“Oh,” Victor’s silent for a while, and then he gives a helpless shrug. His cheeks are pink, Yuuri notices, distracted, “I saw them one day as I was walking home. And I liked them. So I bought them. They’re pretty.” Yuuri doesn’t know what he was expecting, maybe something more dramatic? Victor’s explanation is so banal. It makes so much sense. Victor shrugs again, like he knows what Yuuri’s thinking. He probably does. “It’s not a very exciting story.”

“No,” Yuuri agrees.

They sit in silence for a little while longer, before Victor gets them off the floor and into bed. He gets Yuuri comfortable, leaning up against the pillows, wrapped up in the blankets. Then goes and brings them both mugs of tea.

“We should talk about it,” Victor says, voice quiet, as Yuuri stares down at his mug.

“I don’t want to,” He murmurs. Victor coughs, “But I guess I should.”

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” Victor prompts. His voice is hesitant, wavering. He’s worried about setting me off again, Yuuri thinks.

“Warm,” Yuuri manages a smile, and Victor smiles back. He looks frazzled; he always does after one of Yuuri’s anxiety attacks. It must be scary, to see someone drown in air, “I’ve just, been feeling weird, recently.”

“Stressed - for Worlds?” Victor suggests. Yuuri shakes his head and shrugs.

“No. I mean, yes? I’m stressed and anxious about that. But also, just – weird. I don’t know,” He trails off at Victor’s confused expression, “I don’t know,” He repeats, softly.

He feels soft, and squishy, and tender inside. Vulnerable. And disjointed – like, his hands are too big. Or someone has stretched and re-sized him. He gets like this sometimes. It usually goes away after a while. Or maybe it’s just the tapering.

“I know what we need to do,” Victor says, smile hidden in his voice.

“Cuddles?” Yuuri asks. And Victor dives right in. Spills tea all over the sheets, but doesn’t seem to care at all.

 

Yuuri wins gold at Worlds. It’s a blur. He remembers being disappointed with his scores for each component – and then elated at his placing. It feels like half a victory. He didn’t skate as well as he could have. But _he won gold._ Later, he’ll blame the exhaustion and the elation for what he does on the podium, but he knows that he’s just naturally that stupid.

They call out their names, and the cameras flash, and Yuuri waits what seemed like an appropriate amount of time (in retrospect he will think, there is no appropriate amount of time), and calls out for Victor. Victor stumbles out on to the ice looking confused. Yuuri holds out his hand and beckons for Victor to come closer.

“Victor?” Yuuri gets down on one knee, still holding Victor’s hand, and asks, “Will you marry me?”

Victor gasps. Yuri gags. Otabek claps. The crowd cheers.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” And he pulls Yuuri up for a kiss.

“Fucking hell. You two deserve each other,” Yuri growls at them when they finally separate.

“Congratulations,” Otabek says.

“This only worked because Victor’s an ice-skating God. No-one else would’ve been allowed onto the ice,” Yuri continues, outraged.

“Yurio – you think I’m an ice-skating God?” Victor teases. Yuri’s expression crumples further into rage.

“Fucking damnit.”

 

“You took me by surprise,” Victor says, much later, after the dinner and the drinks and the staggered walk back to the hotel room, and the sex that followed.

“Maybe wasn’t my best idea,” Yuuri replies. He can begin to feel the shame encroaching, seeping in. He can’t believe he did that. What the hell was he thinking? It was totally inappropriate.

“It was an excellent idea,” Victor refutes, emphatically, “But why did you want to propose a second time? I’m not complaining!”

“You said we’d get married when I won gold.”

“Huh?” Yuuri repeats himself slowly, and sits up to look at Victor. Victor looks completely confused.

“At dinner before the GP Final?”

“Did I really? That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Yes! I must have been joking.”

“It didn’t sound like a joke,” Yuuri mutters, aware that he sounds petulant. Victor laughs, and then says, voice soft,

“Did you really think I wasn’t going to marry you unless you had a gold medal? Yuuri, that’s ridiculous.”

“That’s what you said!” Yuuri tries to defend himself. Victor carries on, ignoring Yuuri’s interruption.

“Yuuri, I love you. I want to marry you. I love you when you’re skating and when you’re sleeping and when you’re complaining about me not doing the dishes. I love you all the time. Why could you ever think that I would only marry you if you had a gold medal?”

Yuuri is not crying.

Yuuri is a liar.

“We’re _getting married_ ,” he manages to get out, hiccupping. Victor grins, and kisses his nose.

“Yeah. We’re getting married.”

 

It’s sad, to pack away the costumes at the end of the season. In earlier seasons, Yuuri would do one last run of his routines at the rink, before heading home to pack them away. Yuuri’s parents used to leave him alone in his bedroom to do it. He’d sit alone, quietly, holding the costumes, and usually cry. It’s a pathetic tradition.

Yuuri vastly prefers Victor’s approach. Victor comes back from walking Makkachin and finds Yuuri holding the costume, staring blankly at it.

“Now, that just won’t do!” He exclaims, and pulls off Yuuri’s sweater.

“Victor!” Yuuri tries to bat away Victor’s hands, insistent on removing his clothing, but he’s unsuccessful.

“Model it for me!” Victor demands. Yuuri’s jaw drops. “You always looked so stunning in it but I never got to see you in it off the ice. You didn’t let me come to the fitting.”

So Yuuri puts it on and prances, lets Victor take photos. It’s ridiculous. Victor is ridiculous. They get into a tickle fight when Yuuri tries to steal Victor’s phone, after he hints at putting some of the photos on Instagram. Yuuri wins, of course. He might be more ticklish, but Victor has no stamina.

“Hey Victor?” He asks, when they’ve collapsed on the couch. Victor is wheezing, “You said the costume was designed to suggest masculine and feminine elements?”

“Yeah! Because my hair was long - we were playing with androgyny. Well, I say ‘we’. More like, Yakov let me.”

“It was your idea?” Yuuri presses. He doesn’t know why he’s so interested. Maybe because he just doesn’t know – he’s never talked to Victor about this before.

“Yeah. There was this one sports reporter that kept calling me a disgrace because I wouldn’t cut my hair. It made me really angry.”

“So you skated as a literal fairy?”

“Yep!” Victor pops the ‘p’.

“That’s,” Yuuri hesitates. No, he doesn’t have to hesitate, he decides. The man wants to marry him, “Really petty.” Victor howls with laughter.

“I suppose it is. Worth it though. Won several gold medals with it. Also it amused Yakov.”

“It’s hard to imagine Yakov laughing.”

“Oh, he doesn’t laugh,” Victor corrects, “But sometimes he’ll breathe particularly hard through his nose if he finds something funny. You feel like a champion if you can get him to do that.” Now _that,_ Yuuri can imagine, “When I was a kid I got him to do that all the time. I used to impersonations of the other skaters before competitions.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” Victor shrugs, “I think he let me do it so I didn’t freak out about the crowds.”

“Did he ever do it with Yuri?”

“I think he probably tried. I bet Yura was all ‘Yakov I don’t have time for this fucking shit. I’m better than anyone who has ever skated ever – don’t waste my time with this crap.’” And Victor pulls a scowling face and changes his voice, just a little – to more of a growl than his usual lilt. Yuuri laughs, shocked.

“That’s pretty good!” Victor preens, and Yuuri shoves him off the couch. Victor cycles through impressions of Georgi, of JJ, of Minami until Yuuri’s muscles are on fire from laughing too much. His impression of Chris is a little too accurate – it sends Yuuri into stitches.

Still, for all the fun and games that evening, he can’t sleep that night. Victor is snoring. He can’t stop thinking about what Victor said about the costume. He designed it as a ‘fuck you’ to someone who had old-fashioned ideas of what men could look like. Yuuri wore it and felt first like a scorned woman, and then like a seductress. Thinking about it makes Yuuri’s gut clench, but he’s not sure why.

 

Victor messages him a link one afternoon: a url, followed by a heinous string of emojis. It wakes Yuuri up from his nap.

“Victor?” Yuuri calls, proud of himself for sounding so reasonable even though Victor _woke him up from his nap_ , “Why are you texting me when we’re in _the same apartment_?” Naps are best thing about the end of the competitive season. So many naps. Any and all the time.

<< because you’re all the way over there >>

“I am literally in the next room from you. Look you can hear me fine and I’m speaking at a normal volume.”

<< mon chaton <3 just open it >>

It’s stupid that the pet names can still make Yuuri blush, even after more than a year. Victor alternates between languages. Yuuri can only understand the exact word every so often, but the meaning is always perfectly clear from Victor’s tone of voice, or the accompanying heart in messages. It’s sweet. He’s sweet.

He still tries Yuuri’s patience though. The link opens up a fan page dedicated to Yuuri. Specifically, dedicated to Yuuri’s ass. There are pictures of his butt in every single costume, from every single competition. It’s creepy.

<< isn’t it amazing!? >>

<< I need to thank someone >>

<< Maybe I should do a shout out >>

“No you absolutely should not!” Yuuri yells. Victor cackles. And then hits his head on the couch and yells. Now Yuuri’s the one cackling.

“Mean!”

“You deserve it,” Yuuri retorts as he gets up and heads into the living room. Victor’s still holding is head and pouting, “Drama queen,” Yuuri murmurs, and kisses his forehead.  

Victors squeaks. It’s such an unusual noise that Yuuri looks down immediately. ‘Are you okay?’ is what he means to say. Instead, what comes out, incredulous, is:

“Are you blushing?!” Victor’s face reddens even more, immediately. A corresponding warmth blooms in Yuuri’s chest. This man, he thinks, sitting down and grabbing Victor’s hand. He fiddles with Victor’s engagement ring as Victor continues to scroll through the website on his laptop, sore head forgotten.

“Yuuri,” Victor says gravely after several minutes of silence. Yuuri is immediately on guard, “This is absolutely my favourite and I demand that you recreate this look at once.” Victor has pulled up an image of Yuuri in his last Junior competition. He’s 17. He’s 17 and the costume is _indecent,_ what the hell was he thinking at the time?

“My love, do you still have this? Can you still fit? Or did you have a late growth spurt? I want to see you in it now because I feel dirty perving on your underage self, but my goodness, darling, this is absolutely amazing,” Victor’s babbling.

“It’d be at my parents’ place somewhere,” Yuuri says, apologetically. Victor brightens,

“So you do still have it? Would they send it?” Yuuri shrugs.

“Probably.” Victor claps, looking like Christmas has come early. Yuuri looks closer at the photos. The costume is tight, and revealing, yes, but on closer inspection, and with a deliberate focus on pushing down the instinctive roll of shame that comes over Yuuri every time he sees a photo of himself, it doesn’t look _bad._

“I look…” He trails off.

“Delicious? Delightful? Altogether too tempting for a 17-year-old?” Victor suggests. Yuuri laughs.

“Okay, I was going to say.”

And Yuuri remembers how uncomfortable he felt in that costume – how on display he felt at the time. Terrified that the audience would see all of his flaws. But now, he doesn’t see any at all. He looks healthy, and normal, like any young male athlete. He remembered this costume making him look softer, curvier. And at the time, he was afraid people would dislike that. But now, looking – there are hardly any curves. What was he worried about? 

Yuuri forces a smile, and continues:

“Just thinking, I’ve never really liked how I looked. But actually, looking through these photos – I’m not sure why.”

Victor nods enthusiastically.

He thinks I’ve suddenly gained some self-confidence, Yuuri thinks, later that evening. But that’s not it. I always thought I hated how I looked because I was chubby. But I’m not. I wasn’t. I never was in the competitive season.

He looks in the mirror, tries to remember all of the advice therapists have given him over the years about distancing himself from his emotions and trying to think rationally. What is it?

But there’s nothing that might explain his lingering feelings of discomfort. The only unusual thing is that he’s content with how he looks. Is it because I’m keeping up with regular exercise in the off-season for the first time, he wonders. Or have Victor’s continuous compliments finally started to sink in? It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. It’s not a big deal.

 

He stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and yawning. It’s past 11am, a new record. Victor will make fun of him, he’s sure. He’s fully into his off-season routine of late nights and later rises. Whatever. He’s still got another month before he needs to get serious about training again. But for now, he lets Victor go to the rink or the gym on his own each morning. Yuuri’s not the one who spent over a year out of competition. He’s allowed to sleep in.

Still, it’s weird that Victor hasn’t called out ‘good afternoon’ yet. Yuuri pours a cup of coffee. Is it his new vantage point or the caffeine that lets him notice the top of Victor’s head? Either way, he’s finally located his fiancé.

“Victor?” Yuuri rounds the corner. Victor’s reading on his phone, “What are you reading?” Victor looks up.

“Ah, good afternoon, котенок,” Double points, Yuuri thinks. Teasing and a pet name, “I’m just reading this article Chris sent me, about this ice hockey player who’s come out as transgender.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. The debate is now whether he can move to a men’s team, or if he’ll stay on the women’s team.”

“Why wouldn’t he move?”

“Well, apparently he can’t take any hormones – violates doping rules. And the men’s teams are refusing to acknowledge the gender change without proof of transition, I think.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. That’s what the article says.”

“Huh, that’s tough,” Yuuri says.

“Tough to not be able to take hormones, or – ?”

“Well, tough to have to choose between being yourself and doing what you love, I guess. But also coming out, that’s tough – he’s really brave to put himself out there like that. What are the comments like on the article?” Victor scrolls down, and reads through. Yuuri watches his eyes flick back and forth as he skims. Occasionally, Victor will smile, and less often, he’ll wince. Yuuri knows what he’s going to say before he says it,

“Mixed. Many more positive than negative though.”

“It’s just the negative is worse than the positive is good?” Yuuri guesses, and Victor nods.

“It’s trending on twitter,” Victor says.

“Should we say something?” Yuuri asks. Victor looks up at him in surprise.

“You want to? You never do anything with social media!” Yuuri shrugs, feeling self-conscious.

“Well, it’s a good cause, isn’t it?” Victor smiles at him. It makes Yuuri feel something special, to have someone look at him with such warmth. He’ll never get over it, how much Victor loves him.

“Sure thing. Selfie time!”

“Why do we need a selfie?”

“Because. Don’t argue. I’m the social media king. Hand me your phone.”

And Yuuri really can’t argue with that (as much as Phichit thinks he’s the social media king, Victor really does have him beat). So he lets himself get pulled into Victor’s side, and smiles for the camera.

‘Congratulations @hockeyftwlam We wish you all the best as you live your most #authenticlife!’

Victor nods in approval at the caption. It’s Yuuri’s first tweet in more than a year. He then goes through and retweets a bunch of educational links that were also in hashtag. His phone promptly starts blowing up, so he silences it and drops it on the table.

“Why haven’t you turned off your notifications?” Victor asks.

“Because I’ve never needed to,” Yuuri replies shortly, “I’m not the social media king.”

 

<< Why the hell is Victor calling himself the social media king? >>

<< He’s demanding that we all bow down to him >>

<< I kicked him and now he’s accusing me of treason >>

<< WTF >>

<< I blame you >>

<< Why? >>

<< Because he was always crazy but now he’s crazy and in love >>

<< It’s disgusting>>

<< Sorry Yuri, can’t help you there >>

<< Wait, aren’t kings morally bound to protect their kingdom? >>

<< Probably wtf are you on about Katsudon >>

<< Can you please tell him to DO THE GD DISHES >>

<< PFFFFT >>

<< Hahaha yeah he told me he has servants for that >>

<< Then I told him I was texting you >>

<< Now he’s on his hands and knees begging that I not tell you what he said >>

<< Tell him he’s on the couch >>

<< LOL >>

<< gnricn >>

<< You shouldn’t make him sleep on the couch >>

<< He loves you too much – he’ll die of a broken heart >>

<< Victor, give Yuri back his phone >>

<< But sweetheartttttttt >>

<< I had plans for this evening PLANS >>

<< Oh really? Maybe not then >>

<< You are so weak and you are both nasty >>

<< Sorry Yuri! >>

<<  >>

 

The next time they’re in bed, Yuuri asks for something different. He almost explodes all the veins in his face from how badly he’s blushing. Victor agrees, immediately. But whether that’s because he actually wants it or just because he’s unnerved that Yuuri is stammering and tripping on his own words – Yuuri doesn’t know. For his own mental health, he’s going to assume that Victor isn’t having sex with him out of pity.

Surely pity sex wouldn’t be so good, and tender, and all-encompassing, and overwhelming? Hopefully he’ll never find out.

“You’re not usually so shy,” Victor says afterwards, when they’re sweating and carefully arranged on the bed so that their skin doesn’t touch as they try to cool down. Yuuri mumbles in assent, “What got you so worked up over this? Is it because it’s different?”

Yuuri nods.

“It’s not what we usually do.”

Victor laughs. It’s such a clear sound. Like a songbird. At least, until he snorts.

“Yuuri,” Victor trails an arm to cup the back of Yuuri’s head, and he shuffles forward, “While I’m more than happy – delighted, over the moon even – with how you usually – ”

Yuuri slams a hand over Victor’s mouth.

“Don’t say it!” Victor licks his hand, and Yuuri pulls off in disgust.

“So shy Yuuri!” He totally just got played, “Why is it you can do such delicious things but can’t talk about them?”

“Not everyone is as shameless as you,” Yuuri pouts.

“True! Regardless, this is something I want you to understand,” And Victor’s using his coach-voice. Yuuri has no choice but to listen – he’s been conditioned, like a dog, to respond, “Just because we usually have one dynamic – one that I love and am very happy with, don’t worry – doesn’t mean we can’t change it up. I am more than happy to pamper you and well, really, more than happy to try anything once. I can be _very_ flexible,” Victor finishes with a leer. Yuuri giggles.

“Not as flexible as me.”

“That is very true.”

Victor is being indulgent. It’s nice. He’s grateful.

And if Yuuri didn’t get what he wanted, it’s his own damn fault for being too chickenshit pathetic to explain properly.

 

He wakes up the next day and wants to claw his skin off. Spends 40 minutes in the shower and scrubs himself raw. It doesn’t help. He doesn’t say anything. Nothing new there, he thinks bitterly.

 

Victor has choreographed both his short program and his free skate again this year. His theme for this year is ‘embrace’. It’s cheesy, and every time Yuri is reminded of it he hits Yuuri over the head and sighs really loudly, but Yuuri loves it.

“You should pick a theme for this year,” Victor had suggested to him.

“You,” Yuuri had replied without hesitation. Weren’t they both skating for each other this year?

“That’s…I’m not sure you want to get in front of a room full of reporters, and say that your theme for this year is Victor Nikiforov,” Victor had deadpanned, before snorting.

“Last year I shouted at a room full of reporters that my theme was love. Can’t do worse than that.”

“Yuuri you should embrace it!”

So he does. At least this year he doesn’t shout. And Victor’s choreography is spectacular as usual. The routines are harder than last year’s – more technically challenging. Every time Yuuri complains that it’s beyond him, Victor just replies with “embrace it”.

 

“You’re taking longer showers,” Victor remarks. Yuuri flinches.

“Ah sorry! Am I driving up your gas bill?” Victor shakes his head.

“It’s fine, Yuuri. Without an onsen to relax in, it’s good for your muscles to have longer, hotter showers. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

Yuuri knows exactly why he’s been taking longer showers, and it’s got nothing to do with getting back into training and stretching sore muscles. He’s gotten into the habit of evaluating his body, trying to figure out why sometimes he wakes up uncomfortable in his own skin, and why other days, everything is fine.

He had a bad week last week. Every morning he woke up feeling like someone has stretched him tight, ironed over his skin. Pinned him back and stitched him tight. He’d run and stretched and had some extremely athletic sex, and nothing had helped. Nothing. Sometimes his body feels like a razor blade, too sharp. On the worst days he just wants to stay in bed, swaddled in the blankets. Pulling on one of Victor’s old, stretched out sweaters helps. They’re too big and hang off his frame. Yuuri loves them. Loves feeling wrapped around in warmth and love.

“Yuuri?” He starts. He was so lost in his thoughts he’d forgotten he was in the middle of talking with Victor.

“Huh? Oh, I’m fine. Just tired, I think.”

He’s not tired. But he is fine? Or he isn’t? He’s not sure of anything anymore. But the more he thinks about it, the worse it gets. He needs to figure it out soon.

 

It’s weird. He’s spent months obsessing over what’s wrong with him, why he feels weird about his body sometimes. Why he wants Victor to treat him like the women the magazines always suggested he was dating. He’s spent months being uncomfortable, and uncertain. In the end, he figures it out in exactly ten seconds.

He’s scrolling through crap online, messing around, wasting time waiting for Victor to get out of the shower, when he sees it. It’s so sudden. It’s so anticlimactic. Does everyone discover themselves sitting in their underwear, scratching their leg, scrolling through on their phone?

It’s a gaming forum about the hottest soon-to-be-released. It’s just been revealed that there will be a playable gender-fluid character.

Gender-fluid? Yuuri doesn’t know that word, so he looks it up. And then has one of the most emotionally confusing experiences of his life: feeling simultaneously relieved, and idiotic.

Of course, he thinks. _Of course._  This is it. This is what I’ve been feeling. Why Eros was easier and harder on certain days. Why he wants Victor to treat him differently sometimes. Why he hates his body on some days while on others is perfectly content.

“Yuuri? You can go in now. You okay?” And Yuuri looks up at his fiancé, and smiles.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

He is. He is _good._ He finally gets it.

**  
**


	2. Accept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I followed a lot of vital crazy thoughts   
> Because it's where the meaning was   
> And I tried to find it every other way 
> 
> \- Farewell to the old me, Dar Williams

The competitive season starts soon. Yuuri’s been given Cup of China and NHK – he’s pleased. There’s less travel, and it’s always nice to skate to a home ground. Victor’s got France and Canada, which is frustrating. Victor’s handling the prospect of separation worse than he is.

“Yuuri,” he whines, flopping onto the couch, “I’m not going to be able to see you compete. I’m not going to have you cheering for me.”

And Yuuri is worried about the same things, of course – he remembers his performance the one time Victor wasn’t there last season to watch him – but there’s nothing that can be done about it. The travelling time just makes syncing their schedules impossible.

“You don’t need me, Victor,” Yuuri reassures. Victor looks unconvinced.

“Of course I do, Yuuri.”

Victor does this sometimes. Says something so sincerely romantic, so blatantly loving, without a care in the world. Just throws it out, as if it were a roadside weed flower instead of a rose. It throws Yuuri off. He forgets how deeply and simply Victor loves him, sometimes. He gets caught up in the surprises and the gifts and the silliness.

“But I’m with you, always, Victor,” Yuuri says, feeling cheesy as all hell. It’s okay. Victor loves this stuff, “You’re skating for me. And I will definitely be watching.”

Victor looks like he might cry.

“I love you,” Yuuri smiles, and lets Victor hug him, burying his head in Yuuri’s stomach.

“I love you too, Victor.” He does. It’s a simple fact of Yuuri’s universe now. He’s Japanese, he loves figure skating, he’s gay, he’s got anxiety, and he loves Victor.

 

He shouldn’t read the articles. He knows this. He’s known this for years, and he’s always done well at following the advice his therapist gave him: don’t read about yourself.

It used to be very bad. It sounds childish to put it that way, but Yuuri can never explain it. Thorns swell in his throat and pierce the words, trapping them.

He wants to say ‘I used to have panic attacks multiple times a week’. He wants to say ‘I couldn’t stop myself to reading, because seeing what other people thought of me meant I didn’t have to think about what I thought of me’. He wants to explain how he was 17 and suddenly one of Japan’s highest ranked international athletes at the same time that he failed high school maths. How nothing made sense – he didn’t deserve anything, he was just a kid with a stupid crush who was only still figure skating because he wasn’t good enough at anything else to have moved on. Nothing made sense, and so of course he latched on to the articles that tore apart his performances, that called him undeserving and unqualified and technically weak. That made sense.

His parents put him in therapy when he had a breakdown. He still doesn’t think they really understand. No-one does. His parents can’t comprehend how a mental illness can occur, but accept that it’s a part of him that’s there to stay. Victor understands the pressure and the fragility, but thinks that the right combination of medication and therapy and love will solve it. It doesn’t matter. Truthfully, even he doesn’t understand. He’s just the only one who seems to have accepted that it’s never going to go away completely.

That breakdown was about needing to make sure he never had a breakdown, he remembers. Take about useless. But however pathetic that felt to explain to the therapist, it was worth it. She was lovely, and figured out pretty quickly that he was dedicated and stubborn enough to take care of himself, if he was given the right instructions. He needs to be good enough, but he’s never known how to do it. She helped him see that taking care of himself was an important achievement. The rules were simple: listen to your body. Listen to your mind. Mediate for at least 10 minutes every day. Do not listen to what other people think of you.

So Yuuri doesn’t read articles about himself. It’s a habit that he’s very dedicated to maintaining. Only, it’s suddenly extremely difficult because Yuuri has a second habit regarding figure skating news that he’s equally dedicated to maintaining, and that is reading every single piece that relates to Victor Nikiforov.

So he reads the articles. Some call Victor’s return to skating a gift, others call it selfish, arrogant and ill-conceived, the work of a self-centred wash-up who doesn’t realize he’s past his prime.  Some call Yuuri undeserving and unqualified. Others are elated that he’s back for another season, and tout his silver medal at the final as proof of the potential he’s always had being realized. Every single article calls their relationship beautiful.

Every last one also concludes that it’s a death sentence for Victor’s skating career.

Yuuri should not have read the articles. He doesn’t sleep for a week.

 

<< Katsudon what’s your problem >>

Yuuri stares at his phone. He doesn’t know how to reply to that.

<< I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean >>

<< Victor looked like shit today >>

<< Aren’t you supposed to take care of him >>

<< ? >>

This conversation is a little too weird for Yuuri. He hasn’t even seen Victor today.

“Victor?” He calls out, after fighting with the apartment door and Makkachin’s lead.

“Yeah?”

Yuuri finally manages to untangle the lead from Makkachin’s legs. He heads to the kitchen. Victor’s holding a spoon. He looks like he should be stirring at something in the pot, but he’s not moving at all. His shoulders are hunched. He hasn’t seemed to notice the smell, or the smoke. He’s just staring at the kitchen wall. When Yuuri doesn’t say anything, Victor turns around, and _oh._ There is something wrong. God, Yuuri thinks. The mounting cocktail of panic and guilt makes his mouth taste like ash. How long as something been wrong without him noticing?

“Victor? Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“The um, whatever you’re cooking, it’s burning.” Victor frowns, and then jumps – hitting his hand on the pot, and then swearing up a storm in Russian. He thrusts his hand under the tap and runs cold water on it.

“Victor,” Yuuri says softly, reaching out to turn off the stove, and pull Victor gently towards the couch, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “I’m just really tired.”

Yuuri _growls_ in response, which is just – very embarrassing. Victor looks shocked, before laughing shakily,

“Can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to, of course,” Yuuri says. What he means is ‘please don’t; please don’t ever hide from me’. Victor smiles, just a little, before burying his face in Yuuri’s neck.

“I just – read some stuff online. About how so many people expect me to fail this year. And say I’m wasting my time coaching you. And how I should stop and go back to skating because that would be better for my career. And it just – Makkachin has been sick, and the vet doesn’t know what’s wrong, and it’s probably nothing in particular, it’s just that she’s getting old. I’m just,” Victor stutters, and Yuuri can feel his neck getting wet. He tightens his grip around Victor’s shoulders, “I just hate that people feel like what’s best for my skating is the same thing as what’s best for me. I flubbed all of my jumps today. Yakov yelled at me to get my head in the game, and I just. I’m just – really tired. I’m just really tired.”

“Oh Victor, I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t done anything.”

“I’m sorry you’re feeling so stressed and, and crappy.” Victor tries to smile – Yuuri can feel it.

“I’m just,” Victor’s voice is so soft Yuuri can barely hear, “I know you said that I’m being stupid, but I really am scared to skate without you.”

Oh. _Oh._ Yuuri feels like an idiot. It’s so easy to forget – amongst the silly jokes and the teasing about Victor being so clingy that they must be Velcro-ed together – that Victor’s also got his own insecurities. And that they are just as real and valid as Yuuri’s, even if Victor does a better job of hiding them.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, as Victor continues to sniffle, “You’re not stupid. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I didn’t realize you were so worried about it. But you’re going to be great – you’re going to go out, and _have fun_ and show off these stunning routines you’ve come up with. You’re going to show everyone – all of those reporters and fans – you’re going to make them understand, yeah?”

“Life and love,” Victor says, voice a little steadier.

“Yeah. Life and love.”

They sit in silence for a little while, until Victor feels up to ordering take-out. While he’s in the kitchen looking at the menu that’s on the fridge, Yuuri manages to surreptitiously text Yuri back. He’s such a good kid, Yuuri thinks.

<< Thanks for the heads up. He’s stressed out. Be nice tomorrow? >>

<< I’m always nice >>

<< I’m a fucking gift from God >>

<< You sound like Victor >>

<< Fuck you >>

<< I’ll make vatrushka >>

A quick google tells Yuuri that that’s cake. Which Victor will love, but not be allowed to eat.

<< And hide it from Yakov don’t worry >>

<< Thanks >>

<< fuck off >>

 

They manage to separate at the airport with minimal tears. He gets gold at China and silver in Tokyo. Victor takes home bronzes at his. Yuuri can barely remember competing – but can remember perfectly the phone calls made to Victor whenever they each had a spare moment, to wish each other luck, for Victor to give last minute advice based on videos of Yuuri’s practices, to just say ‘hello’, to congratulate each other, to reassure the other that they were watching, closely.  

<< mоё солнышко <3 >>

<< You were beautiful >>

 

But Yuuri doesn’t always feel beautiful. Sometimes he feels so distinctly unbeautiful that it’s nauseating.

He feels like an asshole though. His life is great. He lives with his partner who loves him very much. He’s a successful athlete in his field of choice. Victor has given him beautiful routines, and dedicates so much time to coaching him professionally and encouraging him privately, and somehow is still managing through sheer talent or force of will to compete as well. He’s qualified for the Grand Prix Final, for the third year a row. He’s finally going to compete against his idol. He’s getting married to the man.

‘Pull yourself together’, he thinks to himself.

It doesn’t go away. If anything, it gets worse. Like an itch on the bottom of his foot while wearing skates. If all he can do is think about it, and think and think, and it just makes it itch more.

But when he finally rips his skates off, he remembers, it barely itches at all. Maybe this will be like that.

He doesn’t have time to take off his skates. He needs to train.

Yuuri finds a website that sells clothes for transwomen – bras and dresses and shoes. So many adorable clothes. There’s a blue dress that he really likes, with a stripe of white along the bottom. He keeps the tab open on his phone, and looks at it every day. He figures out his size, and budgets for the cost of shipping. It’s a distraction from what’s important, he knows, and never lets himself look for too long.

He doesn’t buy anything.

The feeling fades, eventually. He’s grateful.

 

The Final comes around quickly. If Victor hadn’t insisted on going out to dinner for Yuuri’s birthday, Yuuri himself would have entirely forgotten it. He’s too wrapped up in his nerves and focus. He even _dreams_ of the competition now. Sometimes bad dreams, of falling and failing, like before. Sometimes good dreams, of beautiful graceful spins and silver medals. Sometimes even better dreams, of gold shining around his neck and finger.

He’s being a bad fiancé, he knows. He should be supporting Victor. He’s being selfish, just thinking of himself. He’s always been like this. Even as a child. The teachers that had liked him had called him focused. When Mari had got angry at him for forgetting something – a promise, a birthday, to do the dishes – she’d called him obsessed. When he apologises to Victor though, Victor just laughs.

“You concentrate on you, Yuuri. I’m your coach – I want to concentrate on you,”

And then Victor distracts him with deep kisses, and a back rub. It _is_ a distraction, Yuuri knows, but it’s hard to push the point when there’s a gorgeous man sitting on your back, helping ease your aching muscles.

 

“Are you nervous, Yuuri?” Victor asks him, the day before the Final. The bluntly worded question makes Yuuri laugh. People think that you’re not supposed to remind a person with anxiety, that it’ll make them nervous, that it’ll send them spiralling. That’s true. But Victor either doesn’t care, or, Yuuri thinks, looking carefully at Victor – at the steely challenge in his eyes – thinks that Yuuri can handle it. He smiles.

“A little. But I’m excited too,” He replies. Victor grins, bright and beautiful – God, Yuuri is so in love. He can’t believe he managed to go several weeks without thinking about that every hour of every day.

“Me too!”

 

Victor skates before him in the short program. It’s bizarre. Victor Nikiforov, ice-skating legend, is skating before clumsy and chubby Katsuki Yuuri. On the one hand, it’s so strange that he can barely believe it’s reality. On the other, he’s grateful. It means he gets to watch Victor.

He’s so beautiful, Yuuri thinks, watching him dance across the ice. His short program is full of staccato jumps, powerful bursts of joy. It’s a stunning program. Victor’s a very talented choreographer. His program ends too soon – a two-footed landing, and a new combination later. It’s a solid performance. He can’t win with it, but it’s still lovely. It’s still graceful, eternal, in a way that only Yuri has ever been able to come close to replicating. Yuuri loves him so –

“Were you staring at his ass?” A voice says in Yuuri’s right ear, interrupting his musing. He jumps, and swears up a storm. Hopefully no-one around speaks Japanese.

“Yuri – you scared me,” Yuri huffs. Yuuri knows him well enough now to know that that’s a laugh. Then he computes what Yuri said, “And I wasn’t staring at his ass!” Yuri rolls his eyes.

“You are always staring at his ass.”

“Don’t worry,” Mila says, hurriedly. Yuuri hadn’t even noticed her there. “He’s always staring at yours too. We’re all used to it at the rink.”

“I think it’s wonderful that you’re so open about your desire for one another,” Georgi had chimed in. Yuuri’s never been sure whether Georgi always says such embarrassing things, or whether it’s his shaky grasp on English that does him no favours. Either way, it makes him blush. There’s probably no point in denying it for a second time – the lady doth protest too much, and all. They’ll just tease him even more.

He just stands up, winks, and heads towards the ice. He’s got to finish his warm-up. He’ll be up soon. Hopefully he’ll catch Victor on the way.  

 

Sometimes Yuuri gets disappointed that the most important moments of his life – the most emotional, the most life-changing – are always a blur afterwards. It’s almost as if his body reaches a critical level of stress and nerves – even if he is handling it well – and decides to wipe him of the experience. Of course, he’s grateful for it as well, sometimes. He can’t remember the disastrous banquet at all, and barely remembers the skating from that final. He can’t remember coming out to his parents, only that his mother had sat him down the day after and said, enunciating her words very clearly, ‘We love you very much, and we will always love you very much – and we never, ever, want you feel nervous around us, about anything’.

But this Final? He wishes he could remember. He wins _gold._ Otabek wins silver. Yuri takes bronze. Victor doesn’t medal. He doesn’t seem perturbed at all; too busy jumping for joy at Yuuri’s win.

He wins gold at the Grand Prix Final and he can’t remember any of it. Thankfully, Victor took about a million photos.

“I’m so proud of you!” He says, over and over, looking like he might explode of happiness. Yuuri must be dreaming, he thinks, for a week.

He feels proud, and guilty, and then guilty for feeling guilty, and then frustrated at himself. It’s unsurprising that he has a panic attack, really. It’s been over a month of stress and pressure. It’s still unpleasant. That will never go away. Nor, he suspects, will Victor ever get used to it enough to not look like he would rather, would rather anything in the world actually, than have Yuuri suffer like this again.

He loves me, Yuuri thinks, as the coolness of Victor’s hand on his forehand and around his wrist, and the calming certainty of Victor’s love, finally starts to diffuse through his body.

 

“Yuuri,” Victor asks one evening, while Yuuri’s combing Makkachin, “When do you want to have our wedding?”

It has been a year since they got engaged, Yuuri thinks to himself. The question shouldn’t have surprised him. Still, he’s caught off-guard. It occurs to him that he hasn’t really thought about an actual wedding. Does that mean he doesn’t want to get married? He takes a deep breath, and stops his thoughts there: probably not, he’s just been emotionally and mentally pre-occupied with the skating season.

“At the end of the season?”

“Anything more specific, sweetheart?” Victor asks, teasingly.

“What do you want?” Yuuri asks, throwing the question back at Victor. He just shrugs,

“I don’t care. I want to marry. We could do it tomorrow.”

“No,” Yuuri denies, flatly. Victor laughs.

“So when do you want to do it?”

“I’ve always wanted…” Yuuri says, hesitantly, “The end of April.”

“Right after Worlds?” Yuuri nods.

“It’s cherry blossom season, in Hasetsu. It’d be beautiful. Let me – um, let me show you,” If Victor notices his hands shaking, he doesn’t comment. Yuuri brings up some photos of the park, along the road. Victor gasps.

“Yuuri, that’s stunning. You would look even more beautiful than normal underneath that tree. We must wed there!”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Yuuri asks, despite the chanting in his mind: ‘Don’t question – take it, take what you can get and run’. Victor shakes his head.

“Yakov will come anywhere. Chris and Stéphane too, probably.   And you know Yuri loves it here,” Victor looks at Yuuri, and must see the sadness and confusion in his face, “There’s no-one else on my invite list, Yuuri. It’s okay, though. I don’t want for company.”

And that is just too sad for Yuuri to handle right now – the fact that Victor can list all of his friends on one hand, and that he’s accepted it with enough graciousness that it doesn’t seem to upset him. He deliberately takes the sadness, and the anger on Victor’s behalf that he doesn’t want to admit to, and places it to the side of his mind. And then proceeds to take Victor apart with everything he’s learnt about being soft and forceful and exactly how to touch.

 

Then he throws Victor a surprise birthday party, and makes sure that Yuri and he have a dance off again, just to make Victor laugh.

 

They skate, they win, they lose, they fall; they fall more in love. It’s a good life, really, Yuuri thinks. There’s no reason to complicate things with some sort of abstract rejection of gender. So he stays quiet. It’s easier now. He must be getting better.

They make headlines at the European Championships. Old habits die hard and Yuuri finds himself reading every article he can get his hands on about Victor’s performance. As far as he can tell, the opinion is equally split between those who are impressed Victor medalled at all, and those who are disappointed that he didn’t win gold. Halfway through the season, and nothing has changed at all. Victor himself is philosophical, and seems unbothered by the expectations and criticism.

“I’m 29, Yuuri. Even at my peak I didn’t win everything. Now I’m at least three years older than everyone else. I’m happy to qualify to compete at all, let alone medal.”

Yuuri makes the headlines for appearing at the European Championships at all. He’s not sure what the big deal is about – why wouldn’t he be here? Honestly. Victor laughs at his grumbling.

“They’re just looking for drama, Yuuri.”

“I’ll give them drama,” Yuuri mutters darkly, “If another goddamn reporters shoves another goddamn camera in my face – yes, hello.” He interrupts himself with a smile.

“Katsuki Yuuri! And Victor Nikiforov! How are you? Have you been enjoying the competition? Congratulations Victor on your bronze medal placement. Yuuri, how do you feel competing against your coach? Against your idol, in fact?”

Yuuri answers on autopilot, smiling wide and bowing in thanks. Victor steps in, to Yuuri’s relief, and adds some comments about being excited to compete again. The journalist looks overwhelmed to be speaking to Victor. Yuuri can relate. He doesn’t even have to say anything, Yuuri thinks, distracted by the handsome gleam of Victor’s smile. It is possible that Yuuri is tired. Before he knows it, Victor has steered the reporter off and away, and the two of them are alone again.

“You sure showed them, Yuuri,” Victor teases lightly, “That goddamn reporter with their goddamn camera got a goddamn beautiful shot of you.”

“Oh shut up,” Yuuri pushes him. Victor pushes back, and then grabs his hand.

 

It hits him again the next week. He buys the dress. When it arrives, Yuuri opens the package while Victor is out, and immediately bursts into tears. He manages to get control over himself before it becomes a full-blown anxiety attack, but doesn’t dare try the dress on.

He hides it, under the bed in his room, although he’s hardly slept in there. He can’t let Victor find this, he’s adamant. Who knows what he’ll think?

A smaller voice, hidden somewhere further back in Yuuri’s mind, says – Victor will still love him. Even if he’s a freak that wants to wear women’s clothes. He should tell him.

He should tell him.

With Worlds coming up in a month? Victor’s last competition? And then their wedding right after? Not bloody likely. He pushes down the self-loathing, and the discomfort, and the weird guilt, and goes to make dinner.

 

Yuuri picks up a silver at Four Continents. It’s not as annoying as he thought it would be to stand below JJ. He thinks, if he’s being honest, that he and JJ probably have the most in common of all the current competitors. Not that he’d ever admit that – if Yuri ever caught word he might beat Yuuri up in lieu of getting JJ. He’s an easier target, that’s for sure. 

It’s nice, Four Continents. With Victor not competing, he’s just there – as his coach, like last season. Yuuri shouldn’t be nostalgic. But he has to be honest with himself. He likes when Victor looks at him, with admiration and concentration and focus and intensity. He loves it. ‘It fuels him’, is what Mila said. She’s probably right, although that makes Yuuri sound like a cannibal. He’s delirious, he thinks.

The season has never felt so long before. And there’s still Worlds to go. Victor’s last competition.

 

“Are you upset?” Yuuri asks Victor, hesitant, in their hotel room. Victor looks up in surprise.

“Upset?” He doesn’t know what to say to avoid sounding horrible, so he decides to just spit it out.

“That you didn’t win a gold this season?”

Yuuri’s been thinking about it a lot recently. He was waiting for Victor to win gold at Worlds, and instead Otabek won. Victor didn’t medal at all.

“A little,” Victor admits, to Yuuri’s surprise. He was expecting a flippant denial, or an over-dramatic confession. Not something soft and serious, “But I’m more disappointed not to have got a bronze in in the Grand Prix Final. A season of all bronzes, would have been a nice counterpart to your season of silvers and golds,” And there’s the joke. But it’s not really a joke. Victor sounds sincere.

“I was upset,” Yuuri admits.

“For me?” Victor looks upset, for just a second, and then his expression shutters, “Ah I’m sorry, then, mon coeur.”

“For what?”

“If I disappointed you this season. I know you must have been waiting for a Nikiforov surprise, and the standard gold medal streak, but – ”

“No!” Yuur hurries to say, “No. God, no Victor. That’s not what I meant. I’m not a fan.”

“Yes you are,” Victor attempts to tease. He still sounds upset.

God, Yuuri’s messed this up.

“Well, yes, I am,” Yuuri allows, “But I’m not _just_ your fan. I’m your partner. I just want you to be happy.”

“Oh Yuuri. I am. I was serious when I said I’d had enough of winning. I’ve had fun _fighting_ this season. It’s been a good last season.”

“So you don’t think you’ll be coming back?” Yuuri knows this, has known this for quite a while. Victor has confessed, quietly, uncertain, that he’s had a few scares with his knees this season.

“I’m sure I won’t, солнышко моё. It’s been fun but,” Victor shrugs, looking a little ashamed, “Even if I wanted to, I don’t think my knees will let me. But I think – I think I’m done, really. With skating. Competitively, I mean. I came back this year, and I would like to think I was some serious competition for you and Yura – ”

“You were!”

“But that’s all I wanted to do, really. I don’t have anything left to prove. So yes, I’m a little disappointed that I didn’t do better, but I honestly wasn’t sure I’d do this well at all.”

And Yuuri doesn’t know why he’s disappointed. Every skater’s competitive life is shorter than they’d like it to be. Victor’s has been unusually long. There aren’t many still competing at all, let alone medalling, at 29. But, Victor has been skating for Yuuri’s entire career, Yuuri’s looked up to him his entire career.

“I don’t want you to stop,” He confesses. Victor laughs softly.

“I know. But I had my fun,” He pauses, weighing up his words, “But coaching you was fun. Choreographing is fun. I don’t need to compete to have fun skating.”

“I think I want to do one more year,” Yuuri says. Victor smiles and cups his face.

“Yeah, sweetheart. One more year. Let’s do it.”

“Coach me?”

“Stay with you until you retire?” Victor teases, voice lilting. Yuuri’s crying now, “That sounds like a proposal. Of course.”

It comes again.

He gets out the dress, but doesn’t wear it. He stalks the collection of websites and blogs that he’s found of people like him. It feels unhealthy, to be so obsessed with something and not share it with Victor, even if that something only comes around every few weeks.

He’s got to tell him.

<< I need help. >>

<< ARE YOU OKAY!? >>

<< What’s with that reply? >>

<< You never ask for help!! >>

<< This is a big day >>

<< SO ARE YOU OKAY !?!? >>

<< Fine. I just need some advice. >>

<< And I think you might be able to help me? >>

<< Well I don’t know >>

<< Well, you’ve come to the right person. I, Phichit Chulanont, do solemnly swear to use my magical and mystical powers of knowledge to help Katsuki Yuuri in any way I can. >>

<< But I don’t know who else to ask >>

<< Yuuri you type way too fast it’s not fair >>

<< Anyway, what’s up? >>

<< I have something important to tell Victor but I don’t know how? >>

<< This doesn’t seem like a big deal, Yuuri >>

<< Like, I don’t want to insult you >>

<< Oh really >>

<< But like? Just tell him? >>

<< He loves you. There is literally nothing bad that could happen here. >>

<< Just spit it out one night at dinner. >>

<< It’s kind of >>

…

<< Yuuri, those three dots are killing me!!!! >>

<< It’s just different >>

<< Like, it’s weird >>

<< Can you tell me? >>

<< Not really >>

<< Okay >>

<< Like, how weird? >>

<< Way weird. >>

<< Have you committed a crime??? >>

<< -_- >>

<< Okay, well look I don’t know what I can tell you. The man loves you. It’s kind of hard to miss. >>

<< And totally understandable – you’re amazing! Even if you are weird. >>

<< You’re not supposed to say I’m weird! >>

<< Yuuri remember that one time you insisted on dusting the entire apartment at 3am because your sweater got dirty when you stumbled home drunk after a party? >>

<< That’s not weird – that’s perfectly normal! >>

<< It’s weird, pal. It’s weird. >>

<< But fo shiz I don’t think there’s anything you could do that would make Victor not love you >>

<< No-one says fo shiz anymore >>

<< So I think if this thing is important for you to say, you just need to say it. >>

<< Trust him that he loves you. >>

<< Believe in yourself. You’re extremely lovable. >>

<< Or! Don’t believe in yourself. Believe in me that believes in you. >>

<< Thanks, Phichit. >>

 

His conversation with Phichit haunts him. Yuuri can’t stop reading and re-reading the messages. He finds himself looking at those final messages every time he’s on his phone.

He’s got to do it. He’s been putting it off for more than six months. He said he’d do it after Worlds, and Phichit now knows that _something_ is up, even if he doesn’t know exactly what, and he _won’t stop bugging him_ about it. It’s not enough that Yuuri’s drowning in a puddle of his own insecurity and cowardice – Phichit is pushing his head into it. Daily messages alternating between ‘have you done it yet’ and ‘I believe in you’. It’s adorable and infuriating.  

He’s got to do it. He’s certain, that this is who he is. And he wants to be able to start doing some of the things that he’s dreamt of – maybe buy some different clothes, and be able to wear them in their apartment, and have Victor come home to his fiancée. It’s selfish. But he wants Victor to know _all_ of him. He wants to be loved for all that he is.

 

They plan their wedding, in fits and bursts. They decide on a colour scheme one day, and what they want to wear a week later. They build an invitation list slowly, names thrown out over coffee, or while they’re out on runs. Victor insists on having both Russian and Japanese food. Yuuri insists on flowers. It comes together.

Yuuri feels like he’s falling apart. He’s _getting married._ He’s getting married and he’s lying to his fiancé. He’s got to tell him.

 

It’s late. They need to be up early. Victor hasn’t been sleeping well lately – he’s been bothered by a sore knee. It’d be selfish to wake him up. Yuuri knows all of this.

But Yuuri also knows that if he doesn’t say it now it might be months before he gets up the courage again.

“Victor,” He nudges at Victor, who murmurs in his sleep. Yuuri pushes against him harder.

“Yuuri?” Victor’s voice sounds swollen; the syllables are clumsy. Yuuri feels guilty for waking him, but also feels better to hear this voice. He’s so goddamn selfish.

“Victor, I – ” He cuts himself off. He’s spent months obsessing over telling Victor, and somehow never figured out what to say. So pathetic. He’s so goddamn –

“Breathe darling. Deep breaths,” Victor interrupts his whirlwind thoughts before they can blow him away. He’s so good to me, Yuuri thinks, and feels even guiltier.

He might have whimpered.

“Ah, Yuuri – it’s okay. You can always wake me up if you’re not feeling well. I’m glad you did – you’re doing so well. Breathe with me, yeah?”

Victor manhandles him so that Yuuri’s head is on his chest. It’s ridiculous how quickly it makes Yuuri feel safe – with one of Victor’s hands stroking through his hair, and the other holding his hand, thumb sweeping across his wrist. He’s so easy.

This should be easy. He loves me. He’s accepted everything about me so far, Yuuri reassures himself. My anxiety, and penchant for long baths, and weird distaste for nuts, and stealing the covers at night, and heavy accent and always needing to be ten minutes early, and everything else.

He concentrates on the rise and fall of Victor’s chest beneath his head. It’s steady. Like Victor is steady. For all of his dramatics and exaggerations and high-flying emotions, Victor is solid, and sure, and predictable, and reliable. Yuuri knows that Victor has a reputation for being flighty, for breaking promises, for forgetting dates and names and obligations. But Victor has never made Yuuri feel unimportant or uncared for.  Victor remembers Yuuri’s parents’ birthdays and wedding anniversary, he remembers Yuuri’s favourite colour and favourite ice-cream flavor, and is never late when they arrange dinner dates, and never loses track of which restaurants they’ve been to and which Japanese take-over Yuuri does and doesn’t like. Victor is attentive and so obviously devoted, and Yuuri is being an _idiot._ ‘You just need to say it’, Phicit had said. He just needs to say it.

“Victor, um, can I – I have something to say, and I don’t know how.”

Victor stiffens, and then slowly, deliberately, relaxes again. He’s made him nervous, Yuuri realizes.

“Yes?” His voice doesn’t shake, “You can tell me anything,” he says, when Yuuri stays silent.

“I think I – ” Yuuri cuts himself off and starts again, as casually as he can, “You know, I was reading about this thing today, called gender-fluidity. It’s where people, um, change genders,” Every sentence he says sounds like a question. Victor is still stroking his hair, “Like, a person can feel like a man one day and then a woman the next.”

“I’ve heard of it. Yes,” Victor prompts. Yuuri takes a deep breath. He can do this. He faced off against bullies older than him who thought figure skating was for girls. He came out to his parents with a freaking PowerPoint presentation. He moved to the other side of the world, alone. He came back to figure skating after embarrassing himself. He can do this.

“I think that might be me.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, and doesn’t breathe. Victor’s hand stops moving. Yuuri swallows and bites his lip. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. He could have continued on keeping his stupid little idea inside of him, and never telling Victor, it really wasn’t a big deal. He’s just pathetic. And now he’s made this big mistake and –

Victor’s hand starts stroking through his hair again.

“Yeah?” His voice sounds sure and calm. He doesn’t sound like he’s doubting Yuuri, just confirming. Yuuri drags out the last of his courage and nods. Victor can’t see him in the dark, but he can surely feel the motion, “Thank you for telling me, Yuuri,”

Yuuri sags. Into the mattress, into Victor’s arms. He threads their fingers together and squeezes. Victor squeezes back. Victor squeezes him everywhere, pulls him impossibly closer. He wouldn’t do that if he thought I was disgusting, Yuuri rationalizes. He doesn’t mind, he still loves me.

Suddenly the relief flees, and the anxiety comes flooding back. The change is painful; his heart clenches. A sharp, stabbing pain, a sudden muscle cramp.

“I love you,” Yuuri whispers. He’s desperate. He needs to _know._ He needs to hear it. He needs. God, he’s so needy.

“I love you too,” Victor replies. Easily. Immediately. Exactly as before.

There’s silence. The sheets rustle as Victor stretches out his legs. His breaths slow.

“Say it again?” Yuuri demands, impulsively. He immediately wants to hit himself in the face. He should let Victor sleep.

“I love you.”

“Again?”

“I love you. I love you. I love you.” Victor punctuates each one with a dry kiss behind Yuuri’s ear.

“You’re not freaked out? That I’m, you know, so weird.”

“It’s not weird, Yuuri. _You’re_ not weird. Well, you are,” Yuuri’s heart stops. Victor continues, oblivious, “But not because of this! You’re weird because you don’t like pineapple on pizza, and because you insist on organizing your books by colour even though it makes it impossible to find them afterwards.”

He’s trying to make me laugh, Yuuri thinks. He’s trying to lighten the mood, bring me out of my head. He’s being kind. He swallows, and retorts,

“Those things aren’t weird!”  Victor chuckles. It’s a low, quiet sound. It’s intimate, in the dark. Yuuri loves all of Victor’s laughs – the hyena screech at a funny video, the drunken giggle, his laugh when he’s surprised – half gasp half laugh – but he thinks he might like this one best. Especially when he’s pressed against Victor’s chest; he likes the way it reverberates. It feels sure, and comfortable. He loves his man.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

“But really,” Yuuri desperately searches for a last ounce of confidence, to ask the final question – the one he has been refusing to even thinking about, “Do you still want to marry me?”

“Oh Yuuri,” Victor breathes, “Yes. Yes. A million times yes. Really Yuuri. What you said. That you think you’re gender-fluid. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me. I love _you._ I _love_ you,” Victor strokes his hair again. It’s nice. Victor’s nice. Victor loves him, “Now, good night. It’s very late.”

Victor falls asleep quickly, like he always does. Yuuri stays awake, for a long time, as he often does. He can’t help it, his brain won’t shut off. He keeps replaying the conversation, cringing at his faked casualness that Victor could surely see through, remembers the fear of rejection and the relief at Victor’s unquestioning acceptance, feel so damn grateful.

Victor doesn’t care that I’m weird. Victor loves me. Victor doesn’t care that I’m weird. Victor loves me.

Victor doesn’t care.

Victor doesn’t care.

And Yuuri stops that train of thought. Stands right in front of it and pushes it back, away, puts it back into a box. He loves me, he tells himself. He loves me and wants me to be happy.

He loves me. He loves me.

Yuuri doesn’t sleep well that night. 

The next morning, Victor doesn’t mention their conversation, doesn’t deviate from their routine except to note the bags under Yuuri’s eyes. He frets. Did Yuuri get enough sleep? Is Yuuri okay to go for a run? Yuuri reassures him. Maybe he didn’t sleep well, but he’s grateful to have slept at all. Victor treats him like normal, like _he’s_ normal. He’s grateful for a lot of things.

They get _married._ They get married. Yuuri cries. Victor cries. Yuri cries, but he’ll never admit it. Yuuri’s parents cry. Yuuri’s almost certain he saw Yakov wiping away a tear as well.

There’s a moment of confusion – Yuuri’s parents gift them a photo album of their relationship so far. It’s beautiful. They want to address it to them, put it in a fancy script on the front, but -

“Victor? Do you want Victor with a C or Viktor with a K?” Victor just shrugs and laughs.

“It’s Виктор with a B and a p,” He quips, “So I really don’t care which way you spell it.” And for some reason Yuuri’s reminded of the azaleas in Victor’s living room. The same azaleas that adorn the tables in vases for the reception dinner.

They manage to stay sober for the entire duration of the dinner. Yuri comments snidely that he was impressed. Victor gifts Yuri a bottle of champagne in return.

“He’s a minor,” Yakov growls. Victor grins brightly.

“I know! Adults get two bottles!” And hands them over to Yakov, who just gapes. Mila almost gets a hernia laughing at his expression. Georgi just looks pained.

Chris bemoans the fact that there was no pole-dancing, which sets off an argument between him and Yuri. Chris claims that the wedding of two beautiful men should have had more sexy dancing. Yuri retorts that the tango Yuuri and Victor performed for their wedding dance had more than enough suggestion for everyone.

“You should have a dance-off to decide who wins the argument,” Yuuri suggests, casually. Victor snorts.

“You’re mean!” Victor sounds delighted.

“You married me,”

“I did! We’re _married_!”

“Shut the fuck up, Vitya.”

“You have to be nice to me, Yura. It’s my wedding.”

“Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.”

 

They don’t honeymoon. They just stay at Hasetsu. In a hotel though – not at his parents’ inn. They are a little too – loud, for that. Fortunately his parents must have had the same idea, and didn’t even invite them to stay. Victor worries that they’re offended, but Yuuri knows better. His mother is helping him avoid an awkward conversation. It’s a wedding present, in a way.

It’s perfect. Hasetsu is beautiful. Victor is beautiful. It passes so quickly – like a dream.

 

They go through the photos, as soon as they get back. Victor prints them and they spend an afternoon compiling an actual, physical photo album. Victor’s hopeless – he keeps telling stories behind each photo even though Yuuri was there. He doesn’t mind though. Victor’s stunning when he’s happy.

They’re married. He still can’t believe it.

“What are you smiling about?” Victor asks. Yuuri ducks his head, embarrassed at being so obvious.

“We’re married,”

“I know. I can’t believe it. What did I ever do to possibly be worthy of you?” Victor asks, with humbling sincerity. Yuuri just laughs. What did Victor do to deserve him? That’s not the right question. What did Yuuri do? What coud Yuuri possibly do for the rest of his life to justify the happiness he has now?


	3. Embrace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to make you proud   
> And you always said you knew what I could be   
> So farewell to the old me 
> 
> \- Farewell to the old me, Dar Williams

Victor comes home when Yuuri is still wearing the dress. He’d meant to take it off before Victor came home, like he’d done all the other times. The three other times, he corrects, self-deprecatingly.

 

It had taken a long time for him to work up the courage to put the dress on. He’s taken it out of the box so many times, he could fold it blind at this point.

The first time he’d put it on, he’d burst into tears. It felt so _nice._ So _right._ He’d just stood in front of the mirror for 45 minutes, twisting and turning, blushing. He had felt like a different person. Then Victor had texted to say he’d be home early. Yuuri had panicked, tore off the dress, folded it back away, and made sure to be doing something else by the time Victor got home. Victor hadn’t suspected a thing, but Yuuri had gone to bed feeling guilty. Why had he panicked?

The second time he hadn’t cried. The relief had made him feel content instead of overwhelmed. He’d put on mascara and some lipstick – a gift sent from Phichit, who is a better friend than Yuuri will ever deserve – and again, stood in front of the mirror.

He was missing shoes, he realized. Men’s dress shoes don’t really ‘go’ with pretty dresses. So before Victor had come home, Yuuri had taken it all off and put it away.

The third time, he’d had the whole ‘look’ put together. He’d sat and posed and postured in front of the mirror. He’d felt comfortable, finally. But he still hurries to take it off when he hears Victor unlocking the front door. It’s conceited to sit in front of the mirror and stare at yourself. He doesn’t want his husband knowing that about him.

 

But today he puts on the dress, and decides to do something other than stand in front of the mirror. It’s his dress. His apartment. He can wear what he likes.

So he does the dishes, in his dress. He waters the flowers, in his dress. He calls his parents, in his dress. He brushes Makkachin, in his dress. He finally finds the lint roller that’s been missing, in his dress, and while he’s on his knees looking through the bottom cupboard in the laundry, decides to clear out the rest of it, in his dress.

And when Victor comes home, Yuuri is reading on the couch, in his dress. The front door clicks open. Victor’s early again. Yuuri’s heart beats faster. He was going to take it off.

But now he’s out of time and there’s no way that he can make it to the bedroom before Victor sees him. Victor is going to see him.

“I’m home!” Victor calls. Yuuri feels as if he’s going to choke. It’s illogical, but he can’t stop it.

“Welcome home!” He manages. He has nothing to be afraid of, Victor loves him. Victor loves him. He has nothing to be afraid of. He meant to take it off – because it’s become a little secret – but it doesn’t have to be a secret. It’s okay if it’s not a secret anymore. There shouldn’t be secrets between husbands anyway.

He has nothing to be afraid of. Victor walks in and sets the shopping down on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t even hesitate when he sees Yuuri in his dress on the couch. Just smiles and says,

“Did you have a good day?” Yuuri swallows.

“Yeah,” He nods shakily, “Yeah, I did a lot of cleaning. I found the lint roller!” Victor’s eyes widen.

“No way! That’s been missing for two years. I figured it had vanished. Or that a ghost had taken it.”

“A ghost!” Yuuri snorts. How ridiculous. Victor grins.

“You never know Yuuri!”

“You’re absolutely ridiculous. And you know what ridiculous people get?” Yuuri says, ignoring Victor’s waggling eyebrows. He counts a beat, “Tickles!”

He attacks. Victor shrieks.

 

He starts wearing it more often, after that. Not all the time, and not every outside of their apartment. But if he’s having one of those days, he comes home from practice and puts it on – sometimes even some make-up, and feels better. Victor never comments on it, never even raises an eyebrow. Yuuri would almost think he didn’t notice, except that he always tells Yuuri that he looks beautiful.

 

“Victor?” Yuuri asks, mumbling into Victor’s shoulder one evening. He can feel the muscles in Victor’s arm tense over his shoulder. Victor hums questioningly, “Do you think I should tell other people? That I’m, you know?” He trails off, hoping that Victor will fill in the blank. Victor doesn’t.

“What?” He asks instead, sounding impatient.

“Gender-fluid,” Yuuri whispers. Victor doesn’t say anything. Yuuri counts to thirty, and then goes to make tea.

“I’m not sure what to say,” Victor says slowly, accepting the mug of tea.

“Anything would be good,” Yuuri replies honestly. Victor winces.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was just thinking, I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask about this.”

“I’m not asking for your advice because I think you’re some sort of counsellor,” Yuuri snaps. God, how can his husband be so dense? “I’m asking because I love you and I know you love me, and I just want to know what you think.”

Victor winces again, and Yuuri sighs. He shouldn’t lose his temper like that. Victor is only ever trying to do the right thing by him. He cuddles him when he feels at his worst, and he has never, ever said no when Yuuri has asked for something weird during sex – even when it was as vaguely worded as “fuck me like I’m a woman”. Which, looking back, definitely wasn’t fair, because he doesn’t think Victor’s ever had sex with a woman. But he’d tried!

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, mon amour. I guess – what do you want to get out of telling them?”

Yuuri’s stumped. He’s never thought of it like – that being honest was a strategy to getting something.

“I don’t know,” He stammers. Victor frowns.

“Will you feel more comfortable if they know?” And the fact that Victor is not taking it for granted that Yuuri will feel better if he’s honest pulls Yuuri up short. Maybe he needs to think more about it.

 

He’s going to tell Phichit, he decides, eventually. He’s not going to tell his parents. They don’t need to know. Victor nods at his explanation, and then probes:

“Are you sure you’re not telling them because you’re afraid? Or you think it’ll be too much for them.”

“No, I just – I think my bond with my parents is good as it is. They love me. Their mentally-ill, gay son.”

“Their courageous, beautiful son,” Victor corrects, causing heat to rise to Yuuri’s cheeks. He’ll never deserve how highly Victor thinks of him.

“Um. But, no. I think, this won’t mean anything to them. And I don’t want anything from them in this regard. So it’s not important. But Phichit – I think. He would want to know. And I want him to know? I want a friend to talk to about it.”

“Good luck, sunshine,” Victor says, satisfied with Yuuri’s rambling answer. He kisses Yuuri’s forehead, opens Skype on Yuuri’s laptop, and then leaves the room.

Phichit is online. He’s always online. Yuuri counts up to ten, and then back down again. He can do this.

He types.

<< Phichit-kun – can we Skype sometime? >>

<< Of course!!! J J J >>

Soon enough, the sound of familiar beeping floods Yuuri’s ears.

“Hey Phichit-kun!”

“Hi Yuuri!” Phichit waves. He looks good – happy. When Yuuri remarks this, Phichit laughs.

“Thanks! How are you?”

“I um,” Yuuri hesitates. He’s not actually sure how to do this. Phichit looks at him with concern. His face must be doing something weird.

“Are you okay, Yuuri?” He thinks that he manages a nod, but he doesn’t trust his voice enough to try to respond. This is Phichit, he tells himself. This is your friend who wore a tutu for Pride and convinced you to do pole-dancing lessons; he’s not going to react badly. Probably, “Is this about the crime that you did not commit that was weird and you were worried about telling Victor?”

Smart Phichit, Yuuri thinks. He nods again. Phichit grins.

“You told him, right? And it went well?” Yuuri nods, “I’m glad. Would you like to tell me?” Yuuri nods again. He feels like a puppet, just nodding away. He clears his throat.

“I’m, um, gender-fluid,” He says.

Phichit’s eyebrows shoot up, and Yuuri hurries to explain.

“That makes sense,” Phichit interrupts, nodding throughtfully, “Thanks for telling me. Do you have different pronouns that I should use?”

Yuuri smiles. He should have known that Phichit would be on top of all this weird gender stuff.

“No thanks, I’m good,” and then, “Wait, what do you mean ‘that makes sense’?”

Phichit shrugs.

“Didn’t you skate Eros as a woman for a while? And you were the only one of us that looked comfortable when we did that cross dressing challenge at that party, remember?”

And no. Yuuri can’t really remember. When he explains, Phichit has the audacity to roll his eyes.

“Yes, it’s all fine. I still think you’re great. I don’t think of you any differently,” He says slowly, but sincerely, as if he were talking to a child. It’s offensive.

“Don’t look at me like that! It _is_ weird!”

“You know, Yuuri. Uncommon doesn’t always mean weird. And weird doesn’t always mean bad. It’s who you are, and I like who you are.”

“Thanks Phichit.”

“Thanks for telling me, Yuuri. You going to be okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Not convincing.” Yuuri laughs, and says, with more strength threaded through his voice,

“Yes. I’m okay.”

Because he is. He’s got a husband that loves and accepts him, and a supportive best friend. He couldn’t possibly need any more.

 

“I was thinking,” Yuuri starts slowly, as they relax on the couch. Victor is massaging his feet. Sometimes Yuuri doesn’t know who gets more out of it – him or Victor. (Most days he’s pretty sure it’s Victor, which is strange but Yuuri’s not going to judge. Not when he gets such great foot rubs.) Victor rubs circles into his ankle, “That’s good, right there. I was thinking of buying some more dresses. It’s boring, just having one.”

“Sounds good!” Victor’s smile is so bright, “Shall we order them now?”

Yuuri laughs, and nods.

“I’ve got some picked out already actually. Want to see?”

Victor nods.

“Definitely! Let me just put the water on to boil.”

Yuuri starts pulling up the tabs on his phone to show off.

But of course, there’s not enough rice and Victor has to go out to buy some, which he then burns. He swears as he runs to the smoking pot, tripping over Makkachin, and falls and twists his ankle. They have to put ice on it, but there’s no ice, and so they end up sitting on the couch together, eating Chinese take-out, with a bag of frozen peas on Victor’s ankle.

Victor takes a photo of them, and puts it up on Instagram captioned only ‘<3’. Surprisingly, Yuri beats Phichit to the first comment:

<<gross>>

They probably are gross, to a teenager, Yuuri thinks as Victor wheezes. They’re in love.

 

“No, like this,” Yuuri pouts, and tugs Victor over him. Victor goes willing, shit-eating grin spread over his face.

“You’re adorable,” Victor coos, and pinches Yuuri’s cheeks. Yuuri pouts more.

“Fuck me,” He demands. He sounds petulant. He doesn’t care.

Victor laughs.

“Yes your highness,” A kiss to Yuuri’s neck, “Your wish is my command.”

That’s not what I want, he thinks, desperately. But, he concedes, it’s close enough. And it’s good. He has nothing to complain about. Victor is being generous. He should be grateful.

 

“Hey Victor?” Yuuri says, perched above Victor in bed, that evening. The dress has been lovingly put away.

“Yes beautiful?”

“Can we, um, swap?”

“Now?”

Yuuri nods. Victor blinks and then smiles.

“Sure!”

Somehow Victor manages to roll them over without bumping their heads together, or getting tangled in the sheets. Yuuri still hasn’t figured out how he does it. Every time _he_ tries they end up squished together, heads knocking against each other. Victor’s always so elegant, he thinks. And so goddamn attractive.

It’s the last thing he thinks for a little while.

At least, until he remembers that he didn’t put away the milk. It might be off by now. He’ll have to go to the store tomorrow.

“I’m clearly not doing a good enough job,” Victor teases.

Yuuri blushes. Berates himself silently: God, what is wrong with him? His husband is doing his best to make him feel good, and he’s thinking about the _milk_?

 

It keeps happening. He realizes he has a cramp in his leg, or that Makkachin really needs to go to the vet, or that he forgot to book next year’s dentist appointment. His libido goes down the drain.

The worst thing is, Victor either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind. He keeps asking, and touching, and holding, and always respecting Yuuri whenever he shrugs him off. Always smiling happily when Yuuri prefers cuddling to sex. He never frowns or gets upset or demands to know why; he just rolls with it.

 

“It’s just – I don’t know,” He sighs heavily, after recounting it all. Phichit hums sympathetically, voice eerily altered by the poor connection.

“Well, you have been together for quite a while now. It’s normal that the appeal would wear off.”

“It’s not that!” Yuuri hurries to say. Because it’s not. Victor is still astonishingly attractive. And the sex is still mind-blowingly good (‘Your mind isn’t the only thing getting blown,’ he can hear Victor say, in his mind.)

“I’m not saying that your relationship is over. I’m saying that it’s pretty common after a little while to find yourself getting bored with sex. Because we all fall into patterns, right. We do the same thing because it feels good. And that’s not a bad thing! But it’s also not a bad thing to want to try something different.”

“That’s not really it,” He says again, “It’s not that I don’t want to – you know. I just want something else?”

Phichit shrugs.

“Do you know what ‘it’ is, then, the ‘something else’ that you want? This dissatisfaction with your sex life? Because it seems like it’s making you quite upset.”

It is making him quite upset. He can’t stop thinking about it. It’s become an obsession. The same way the dress was an obsession. The same way the dancing knives in his gut was an obsession. He needs to figure it out, and he needs to name it, and he needs to deal with it.

But he doesn’t know what _it_ is. It’s maddening.

He shakes his head. Phichit smiles.

“Then there’s nothing you can do about it, right?” Yuuri raises an eyebrow, and Phichit laughs. They both know that Yuuri is going to run himself ragged trying to figure it out; you don’t get to be a top athlete without a dangerous amount of focus and a distressing sense of perseverance.

 

There really isn’t anything to complain about. Victor is good at everything. And is open to trying every new thing. He never says “no” when Yuuri asks for something.

A thought strikes Yuuri in the middle of the night. Victor had said that he’ll try anything once. But maybe – now that they’ve tried everything once, that’s it. He won’t want to do it again.

Victor’s made it pretty clear what he prefers, after all. It’s what he goes to first, when Yuuri doesn’t change it up. It’s clearly what he’d prefer to do.

He’s been so selfish, Yuuri realizes. Making Victor do all of these things that he doesn’t really want to do. He’s got to stop. It’s not fair to Victor, who’s been so kind and understanding and generous. He’s going to stop. Besides, the season is starting soon – Yuuri has to concentrate on his routines, not on all of these pointless distractions.

He’s going to stop. He’s going to be a better husband.

 

The season arrives suddenly; winter breaks over them in an instant. The flowers by the window shrivel and shudder, Yuuri shivers. They don’t take Makkachin outside anymore.

Suddenly, she seem so frail. Victor’s been worried about her for almost a year now, but it’s never seemed real. Victor spends more time at home, curled up on the couch with her.

They both cry at night, but she licks the tears off of their faces. Victor says he’s fine, but Yuuri knows what it’s like to lose your beloved pet. He makes Victor’s favourite tea, and lets him have the blue blanket when they watch TV (and he takes the pink and gold one that itches so much they swear they’ll throw it out every week), and cooks all of Victor’s favourite meals.

Victor comes home one evening, doesn’t say anything, goes straight to the spare bedroom and shuts the door. Yuuri lets him wallow alone for an hour, before he goes and knocks.

“Victor,” There’s silence, “Victor, what did the vet say?”

Victor opens the door. He’s a mess. Yuuri knows instantly what the vet said. He opens his arms, and Victor dives in.

“We should put her down. She’s in too much pain,” He hiccoughs into Yuuri’s shoulder, which is increasingly damp, “Wednesday.”

That’s two days. Only two days left with the beautiful dog, the dog that Yuuri met before he met Victor, really. What can one do but cry?

 

Life goes on.

They skate. Yuuri spins and jumps and falls. Victor tells him he’s beautiful. Victor tells him to do it again. And again.

“You’re blooming, Yuuri – even more beautiful than last year!” Victor calls. On good days it makes Yuuri blush. On better days it inspires him to wink, and show off, and then Victor is the one blushing.

On bad days, Yuuri grits his teeth and thinks about the bruises blooming on his knees and hips. He thinks about bleeding knuckles and blistered toes. He thinks about broken hearts; he thinks about pulled muscles and searing cramps and running noses and always being too hot, too cold. He thinks about Victor as untouchable; he thinks about Victor as long-haired, nymph, a golden age movie fairy tale, an untouchable myth.

“Again, Yuuri! Maybe more like this?” Victor demonstrates. Victor performs his choreography better than Yuuri could ever hope to. Victor is a god on the ice; Yuuri worships him and plays pretend with the gifts that Victor leaves him. He wraps himself up in knock-off Nikiforov.

“Beautiful, Yuuri!”

 

Life goes on. They fly around the world for Yuuri’s competitions. They buy a new puppy for Yuuri’s 26th birthday. Her name is Momo, and she’s adorable – fills up the space that Makkachin left.

His mood is increasingly volatile. Sometimes he feels light, and joyous, and determined. Sometimes he’s a toxic mess. It worsens in the lead up to the Grand Prix Final, when Victor’s voice becomes grating, and Yuuri’s costume becomes unbearable. It improves after he wins silver, although whether the medal is the cause is up for debate. Yuri tells him he has PMS, Mila hits him over the head so hard she calls the on-site medic to check he doesn’t have concussion. Yuuri rolls his eyes, laughs it off, and worries incessantly.

 

Increasingly, there are more bad days than good days. Yuuri can recognise it. The ice is a mirror: Yuuri sees himself grow colder, stalactites in his heart. He pushes himself too far; he lets Victor push him too far.

 

<< What’s your problem Katsudon ? >>

<< What’s your problem Yurio? >>

<< wtf >>

 

<< Yuuri, would you like to talk? >>

<< It’s alright, Mila. Thanks for asking. >>

 

<< Katsuki – take the day off, please. >>

<< Is there a problem with the rink, Yakov? >>

<< You need a rest day. Why hasn’t Vitya told you this? >>

 

Victor did tell him.

But Victor also tells him that he needs to work on his Ina Bauer and that he’s most beautiful when he skates.

 

“Come on, Victor!”

“He’s an adult, Yura. I can’t just tell him what to do. He’s got to – ”

Yuuri turns around and walks away before he can hear how Yuri replies. Gets about ten steps before the rage inside of him hits a boiling point, and he marches right back to them.

What is Victor saying – that Victor can’t tell him what to do? Victor, who tells him what to do every second of the day, do it again, again, again, better, better, better? And Yuuri just rolls over and accepts it, like a dog, like a little bitch.

They jump apart when he rounds the corner. Victor looks guilty. Yuri looks taken-aback.

Yuuri stares – glares – at them, chest heaving. Yuri stares back.  Victor looks between them, looking tired. He’s the one to break the silence.

“Yuuri, my love, shall we go get dinner? Yura was just saying he was hungry.”

“That’s not what he was saying,” Yuuri retorts. Yuri reels back. Victor takes a deep breath. So patronising. Yuuri clenches his fists.

“It’s what he said earlier. And I think we all need to take a break, eat some food, and perhaps go home for the evening.”

He sounds so reasonable. It’s infuriating. This is the man who clings to Yuuri like a child, who goofs off and flirts in public and plays silly pranks.

“Yuuri, please,” Victor is holding out his hand, “Please don’t say anything you’ll regret. Let’s just go home, yes?”

 

“Yuuri?” Victor says, hesitating, as they walk home. Yuuri hums, “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m just tired, and stressed,” Victor looks like he doesn’t believe him. Yuuri doesn’t believe himself. But he’s not sure what’s going on, so there’s nothing to say. There’s no point wasting Victor’s time with hypotheticals and scrutinising details, “I just need to take a shower.”

 

He usually feels better in the shower.

The warm water calms his racing thoughts; he’s able to concentrate on the warmth spreading through his body, the water against his skin.

He shuts his eyes, and fills his lungs, slowly. Deliberately.

It’s all good, he tells himself. He is absolutely fine. He’s in a relationship with a wonderful man who loves and accepts him for everything that he is. A wonderful man who wants him to be the best that he can be; who pushes him and guides him. He has parents who love him, and a best friend that loves him, and a dog that loves him. He has friends who care for him. He has a career that he’s successful in, and he lives in a beautiful apartment.

He’s better than fine. He’s great. What more could he ask for?

 

Victor doesn’t bring it up, when Yuuri pulls himself out of the shower 45 minutes later. Yuuri’s grateful. He doesn’t want to have to explain why he suddenly regressed into a childish monster. The thick curl of shame wrapping around his stomach is enough.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Yuuri,” is all Victor says as they curl up together in bed, “I love you. I love you when you make your jumps and when you don’t.”

It was never really about the skating, Yuuri knows. But he doesn’t have the heart to tell Victor. Not when the man is trying to make him feel better.

Besides, he doesn’t know what it was about, really. He’s upset, at something, about something. All he knows is that he _needs_ , he needs something. He doesn’t know what, and so he doesn’t know what to ask for, and he’s not even sure whether he has the right to ask for it or not. He’s upset at himself. It’s hard to find a cure for that.

 

“It’s all messed up in my head,” Yuuri confides in Phichit.

“Your free skate?”

“No!” Yuuri denies, too loudly, and then cringes at himself. He shouldn’t sound so scathing – they were just talking about their programs, “It’s just – it’s everything.”

“You’re being spectacularly unhelpful.” There is a hamster on top of Phichit’s head. He doesn’t seem to have noticed.

“I’m unhappy,” Yuuri hesitates, “with Victor.”

“Being with Victor, or at Victor?” Phichit looks worried.

“At him,” Yuuri corrects, “But I have no idea why.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“What, like ‘hey Victor I’m mad at you, tell me why’? No! If anything, he should be asking me! But he doesn’t because he clearly doesn’t care!” His voice rises. Phichit raises his eyebrows.

That’s it.

Victor probably just doesn’t care. He doesn’t ask about the dresses because he doesn’t care. He never asks which gender Yuuri feels like on any day, because he doesn’t care.

Yuuri has wasted so much time, he wants to kick himself, worrying about Victor finding him disgusting. But he doesn’t. He’s just apathetic. It’s like those flowers – Yuuri is just pretty. Victor doesn’t care about meaningless details. Yuuri is pretty, and happy to do whatever Victor says, and Yuuri waters the flowers.

I’m just stressed, he tries to tell himself. I’m just stressed with the retirement, and having to think of a new career – it’s a lifestyle change, it’s a big change, it’s freaking me out.

He’s lying to himself, and he knows it. There’s one question that he can’t stop thinking about: _How long is Victor going to keep me around when I stop skating?_

 

The frustration fades, after a while.

Victor starts leaving the classical music radio station on constantly, in the living room. Victor surely notices that Yuuri increases his meditation sessions from 10 minutes to 20 minutes a day, but he doesn’t say anything. Just wakes them both up a little earlier so that Yuuri doesn’t have to worry about being late to practice.

It takes a little while, but eventually he gets back to feeling more balanced, more in control. Yuuri pretends not to notice the collective sigh of relief that seems to echo through-out the rink as it becomes clear that his head is back in the game.

 

Yuuri’s free skate has changed a lot through the course of the season. He knows that it’s subject to frequent commentary, why his routine sometimes looks so different to what was announced for the season, to what he’s usually seen practicing at the rink.  

In actual fact, Victor has choreographed two for him. One for when he feels like himself, and one for when he likes to wear the dress.

Victor had watched Yuuri casually recreate one of Mao Asada’s routines one morning, and two days later had presented an alternative free skate. It’s not completely different – just some different elements in some places, clearly inspired by Asada’s routines. But it’s enough that Yuuri can feel the difference.

He takes bronze at Four Continents with this routine, and manages not to flinch when they announce the _men’s_ results.

 

“You can do it, Yuuri,” Victor says, smiling sweetly, “You know what to do.”

Yuuri takes Victor’s hands, takes strength in the feeling of the two metal rings.

It’s his last competition, ever. It’s hard to believe. He’d freaked out about it, earlier in the week. But he can’t do another season; he doesn’t have it in him – not mentally, not physically either. The persistent problems with his ankles have taken their toll. And he knows that the only reason he’s here at World’s at all is through sheer stubbornness – he should have stopped at the Grand Prix. His parents had been worried, Minako resigned, but Victor had understood.

They’ve always understood each other best on the ice, after all.

“Don’t take your eyes off of me,” It’s not quite a question, not quite a demand. Victor laughs.

“Never. Go out there, beautiful, and have fun,”

 

He takes silver.

It’s hard not to be disappointed. Victor had been philosophical at the end of his career. But all Yuuri feels on the pedestal, standing below Yuri, is bitterness and regret. He’d wanted to finish stronger – leave something to be remembered by.

Still, as he looks out – Victor looks as proud as ever. 

 

The next week Yuuri sees himself in the mirror before showering and is struck by the sudden, crushing, inescapable need to slice himself to pieces. _Wrong, wrong, wrong,_ he thinks, staring at his naked body. _Repulsive,_ he thinks, with an almost foreign certainty, _abominable._ He hurries into the shower, and washes with his eyes shut.

“Yuuri,” he hears Victor call, “You’ve been in there a long time.”

“I’ll be out in a second!” Yuuri shouts, hurriedly. He barely dries off, before stepping out.

Victor whistles. Yuuri flushes, caught off-guard.

“You look stunning, _mon cher,_ ” Victor says, voice lowered.

_Yes,_ Yuuri thinks, hating himself. If Victor can love him loudly enough, he might be able to forget how hideous he is.

 

“Yuuri that was, um,” Victor hesitates. Yuuri sits, with his back hunched, facing away. He doesn’t want to see Victor. Not after – not after whatever that was. Such a shameful, disastrous car crash barely deserves to be called sex.

What was he thinking? That he could fool Victor into believing that he was turned on? That he could fool himself into forgetting what a horrible messed-up monster he is?

That Victor would notice that he was upset, and ask him about it, instead of trying to distract him? It’s an ungrateful thought: his husband had been trying his best to make him feel good.

“Well, not my best work!” Victor continues on, trying to lighten the mood, “I must be a little tired. Lie down with me – we can cuddle!” 

Yuuri lies down, slowly, keeping his back towards Victor. Victor is normally the little spoon, but tonight Yuuri is claiming it. He can’t possible face Victor right now, not after he was such an embarrassment.

Victor pulls him closer, splays his fingers over Yuuri’s stomach, arm over his misshapen, oddly protruding hips. His mouth is at Yuuri’s ear, chest pressed against his back,

“I love you,” Victor’s voice is soft.  He strokes Yuuri’s arm. His fingers are soft.

I love this man, Yuuri thinks, suddenly overwhelmed. A tidal wave of affection washes over him. He loves me so much. He’s so good to me.

“I love you too,” he replies, softly, settling down, curling into Victor. He threads their fingers together.

“Sleep well, sweetheart,” Victor murmurs.

He loves me, Yuuri thinks, a little bit dazed and a little bit desperate.  He put a ring on my finger, and he takes photographs of me every day. He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t love me.

 

He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t love me, Yuuri thinks to himself frequently. He loves me. 

 

<<Sometimes I wonder if I love him >>

He looks at his phone, and then deletes the message. Of course he loves Victor. And Victor loves him.

 

He breaks down again on a Tuesday.

Nothing happens, not really.

“I’m thinking I’ll buy some new clothes,” he mentions casually, lying on the couch as Victor plays with Momo. Victor brightens immediately.

“Yes! I want to go shopping for you too – I saw this beautiful suit the other day, Yuuri would look divine!”

There’s a curious sinking feeling in Yuuri’s chest. A sort of resignation that this will always be his life – having to correct:

“Actually, I was thinking, maybe some skirts?” And his voice betrays him: wavers, _shit._ But Victor doesn’t notice, just tilts his head.

“That sounds good too!” And the conversation carries on.

 

But Yuuri can’t forget the pause. The sickening second when Victor looked confused, and concerned, and shocked. That honest moment when Victor had forgotten about Yuuri’s…’thing’ with gender. 

Because Victor had _forgotten_. Who Yuuri is, fundamentally, is so unimportant – so inconsequential – to Victor that he just _forgot._ He’s not even worth remembering.

He’s not worth concern, or love, or attention, or – or anything! Victor has lied – lied about loving him, and accepting him, and wanting him, and –

“Sweetheart, Yuuri,” Victor is kneeling in front of him. When did he get here? Yuuri is vaguely aware that the shower was running, and Victor had been on a walk, but that was hours ago, wasn’t it? Victor’s still walking to him, he can barely hear over the rushing in his ears, “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going through your head.”

And Yuuri does.                                                                     

He doesn’t decide to do it, he doesn’t think about it – it just all comes gushing out. The dam breaks, and the words are a torrent. He tells Victor _everything._

How he doesn’t know why he feels this way, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. How he bought a dress but he feels stupid wearing it. His shoulders are too broad and his chest doesn’t fill out the dress. How he stole some of his sister’s make-up but he doesn’t know how to put it on. How he wants Victor to fuck him as a woman but there’s no way for that to happen because he can’t just change his body, and then change it back the next day. How he wants to be a woman, but the idea of dressing up makes him feel like a fake, like an actor, like a fraud. How he just wants to be real. Just wants to shape-shift like in the movies. How sometimes he hates his body, and wants a new one, but doesn’t even know what that would feel like.

Victor’s trying to calm him down, but he can’t stop. He’s not finished.

How his parents told him that liking figure skating didn’t make him a girl, and being gay didn’t make him a girl but they were wrong because he is sometimes, and he’s ashamed of how ashamed he feels, because he shouldn’t feel ashamed, he knows that – and he’s just being stupid and ungrateful for all of the love and support he’s been given over the years, and wasn’t being gay enough? What’s wrong with his brain that he needs to create this new thing, and what’s wrong with his brain that he can’t stop second-guessing himself? 

And Victor’s talking, repeating his name. His voice is weird. It’s wet and his accent is heavier, and Yuuri can barely understand some of his words. He’s asking: what do you need – please sweetheart, can you breathe – what do you need me to do?

And Yuuri just screams. He covers his ears and he screams. He screams because it’s not enough to cry anymore. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s having a breakdown. A proper breakdown. He’s lost it. He’s actually a crazy person.

Victor’s going to leave him.

“I’m not going to leave you, sweetheart. Yuuri, look at me.”

Victor’s going to leave him. Victor’s going to leave him because Yuuri is broken and crazy and so pathetic that he can’t handle his problems.

Victor chuckles, weakly.

“You’re not pathetic, Yuuri. But your communication skills could use some work, eh?”

It’s a joke. It’s a little teasing. It’s meant as light-hearted. But he always does this. Victor always does this. He always needs Yuuri to tell him what to do and he keeps making these little jokes, and it’s not funny. Sometimes Yuuri doesn’t want to be cheered up. He wants Victor to understand and respect and reciprocate the severity and gravity of his feelings. That things are serious, and it’s okay that they’re serious, and sometimes he’s upset, and he just needs to be upset. And not have it deflected and the conversation moved on, like traffic shuffled and re-directed around a crash.

Sometimes he’s a fucking car crash, and Victor just needs to look at it. Because it’s not going away. Yuuri isn’t going away. Just like the fact that he’s gay, that he’s got anxiety - this stupid thing with his gender isn’t going away.

Yuuri’s vaguely aware that Victor isn’t saying anything anymore, but he can’t stop talking. He stop it all coming out.

He tells Victor how angry he is – at himself, and at Victor. Because he is. He’s _angry._ He’s angry that Victor hasn’t made any effort to find out what Yuuri might be feeling or going through. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t inquire, he hasn’t gotten on Google. Victor never suggests any new changes to their domestic life or their sex life. Victor didn’t tell him he looked good in his dress, didn’t ask if he was okay when Yuuri got so angry last year for no reason, or when Yuuri lied about why he was crying in the bathroom, or when they had such bad sex last week. He never asks about it, never follows up on it, never seems to care.

Victor never seems to care. Like he’s rather just forget about it, or maybe does forget about it until Yuuri brings it up again. And it makes him feel like a monster. It makes him feel like a freak. It makes him feel like a broken record, like a child, like – like he’s sick, to constantly demand attention. It makes him feel like he’s crazy – sometimes he wonders if he even told Victor at all, or if maybe he just imagined the whole thing.

But it’s not going away. It’s part of him.

 

It’s a relief to say it. He feels lighter. Maybe he’s only just finally accepted it. Yuuri closes his eyes, and breathes deep, lets his lungs fill, and empty, and repeat. He focuses on the feeling of calm, and lets it spread through-out his body.

He feels better. Like he bled out all of the poison, like he’s been drained of the toxic waste that was festering in his body. It was ugly, but he’s clean now. Yuuri is better now. He’s going to open his eyes, and he’s going to apologize for saying those awful things to Victor, and they’re going to fix this.

Yuuri opens his eyes, and immediately wishes that he hadn’t. God. Fuck. _Fuck._

The clean lightness disappears. All the light disappears; there’s a black hole in his gut.

Victor is crying.

Victor has his fist shoved into his mouth, and he’s bitten through the skin of his knuckles. He’s bleeding, and he’s crying. Victor’s other hand is clenched tight, skin not white but translucent, veins threaded through blue, holding his knees to his chest. He’s shaking more than Yuuri has ever shaken; his whole body is trembling. Victor looks _broken._

“Victor?” Victor shudders, and a sob escapes. Yuuri shuffles forward, reaching out. He broke him, “Victor? Love, can you hear me?” And Victor just keeps crying, and Yuuri is a monster.  

Should he touch him? Yuuri doesn’t know if Victor wants to be touched or not. He’s never seen Victor like this before. What if Victor wants to be alone? Maybe he should leave? Or get a glass of water? Victor sobs again, his fist not quite masking the sound. And that’s Yuuri’s decision made for him.

He folds himself around Victor, kneels over him, pulls his head into his shoulder. It’s awkward. It hurts his back. He doesn’t care. Break his back, he doesn’t care. He broke Victor. He’d deserve it.

“Victor? Victor. I’m so sorry that I lost it. Really, I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry. It doesn’t matter, really. None of matters. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so – ”

“Stop,” Victor says. His voice is shot, scratched and grated. He sounds like he’s been yelling. Maybe he has, and Yuuri just couldn’t hear him over the sound of his own pain and screaming, accusations and rushing blood.

He can so easily think of all the things Victor might want to say. Things like ‘how dare you turn your own pathetic insecurities on me?’ and ‘I have always accepted you’ and ‘when have I ever said anything that would give you impression I didn’t care?’ and ‘you are living in _my_ house, mostly on _my_ money, and you have the gall to complain that I don’t say exactly what you want all the time?’ and ‘you’re not the best at communicating either Yuuri, why don’t you figure out yourself before you start judging others’, and ‘if you had a problem why didn’t you just get over yourself and _tell me_ about it _honestly_ so that we could fix the problem before it got to this stage?’ and ‘you’re just imagining things’.

But Victor doesn’t say any of that. He just repeats,

“Stop,” and swears. Yuuri knows those words. ‘I’ll teach you the important ones,’ Yuri had said. He’s thankful now. But it feels weird to think of Yuri at a time like this.

Victor nudges out of Yuuri’s grip, lifts his head. They’re kneeling in front of each other now. Their knees are going to be shot tomorrow.

They’re just staring at each other. Victor’s face is splotched red. With swollen eyes and wet cheeks, deep furrows in his forehead from scrunching his face while crying, he’s quite the picture. Nobody would want a picture of him now, Yuuri thinks, almost making himself laugh. Or maybe they would. But they don’t get one. All of his thoughts are fuzzy.

Victor looks frustrated with himself. Yuuri tries not to feel satisfied, but he does. Then he feels guilty. Victor sighs.

“Okay. I am going to wash my face. You are going to drink a glass of water – one of the tall ones, Yuuri, don’t cheat – and then we are going to sit on the couch and talk about this,” Victor swallows, and keeps going, eyes narrowed the way they always are when he concentrates, “Because I do care about you – so much, you cannot imagine –  and I definitely don’t think you’re a monster. But clearly something has gone wrong with our communication. So we are going to _talk_ about this. Okay?”

Yuuri nods. Victor raises an eyebrow.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” He pushes himself up and then holds a hand out to Yuuri.

Yuuri, who is just sitting on the cold bathroom tiles, completely confused and freezing cold now that the anger has faded. Is Victor angry? He can’t tell. He just stares at the trembling hand Victor is holding out to him.

“Yuuri,” Victor says quietly, voice shaking as much as his hand, “Would you like some help?”

Yuuri stares at his hand longer, can barely believe what he heard. Victor never asks. Victor just says. But Victor did ask, so maybe Yuuri can be a little flexible too. Maybe Yuuri can be a little more honest.

He reaches out, his own hand trembling too. But Victor’s grip is strong.

“Yes, please. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I need help.”


End file.
